Postmortem
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: Kirk/Spock. Mature Content. On an alien planet, Spock is condemned to death for a murder he did not commit.
1. Prologue

Prologue

A plain white ceiling was a curious thing to have as one's final sight.

When he had given time to thoughts of death, Spock had imagined that his last sight would be the flash of phaser fire or explosion, an alien landscape or a raging, unstoppable beast of an unknown world. At best, he had hoped for the vision to be the red walls of his own room or the Vulcan sky, enclosing him peaceably after a long life. He had not expected the end of his life to come in a cold, sterile room, unaccompanied by anyone he could call friend, and in perfect knowledge of how and when the final moment would come.

The executioner looked no different to any of the other men who had been gathered in the room until just a few minutes ago. He wore no special clothing, his face was not masked. He was, ironically, a doctor, trained in the skills of healing injuries and saving lives.

He looked down at Spock with an odd degree of pity in his eyes.

'Are there any rituals special to your people before death?' he asked sombrely.

Spock considered. He did not imagine that a request to transfer his katra would be an acceptable ritual.

'None that are possible here,' he said finally.

'Are you prepared for your end?'

Spock looked about the tiny room he was lying in. It was bleak and colourless, the only furniture being the gurney to which he was strapped and a sidetable containing certain medical equipment. One wall had a slightly different texture. It was a one-way window, and he knew that behind it, watching, were ranks of Malkerian officials.

He lay still, letting himself become aware of his body's vitality, feeling the pulse of blood in his veins, the slight movements in his gut, the beating of his heart. Slowly he began to withdraw himself from those sensations, telling himself that physicality was of no concern. Finally he said,

'Proceed.'

He surprised himself with the shakiness of his voice. He heard the executioner intone solemnly, 'We have found the prisoner to be sound of body and mind, and prepared for death. He has been convicted of murder, and he will suffer the just punishment. On Cycle 53 of the fourth month of the Sun he has been doomed to perish. It is that time.'

Spock stared at the ceiling above him. He felt the cold tip of a hypo touching his neck. He heard the slight hiss as it released the prescribed dose into his skin. Possibly the slight sting of the injection would be the last thing he would feel.

But no. He could feel the chemical in his bloodstream. He began to feel nauseous. His vision started to constrict into a tunnel of blackness. It was getting harder to breathe, and he tried not to fight it. But the thought came unbidden in to his mind, that he would never see Jim again, and suddenly he _*was_* fighting it, struggling to breathe against a paralysis that he was helpless to resist. But then his mind succumbed to dizziness, and then, to nothing…


	2. Chapter 1

1.

Two Months Earlier

Kirk had called Spock aside only half an hour before they were due to beam down to Malker on what was known in informal terms on the ship as a 'second contact'. Malker, a Class M planet orbiting a yellow star similar to Sol, did at least possess space travel, and had already held communication with a number of local star systems. They had progressed beyond local government, and the planet was under one rule. They accepted the existence of aliens, and were growing used to peoples of different species visiting their planet. They had achieved Warp One, invented replicators and force fields, and were beginning experiments with transporter technology. The planet had never, however, had contact with the Federation. The delicate business of introducing the Malkerians to the vast network of planets that made up the Federation had been left to Starfleet's flagship, the starship _Enterprise_.

Spock was refamiliarising himself with those facts when Kirk mounted the upper level of the bridge and came to stand next to him at his station. He straightened from his viewer and raised an enquiring eyebrow, waiting for his captain to speak.

'Spock, before we beam down, I'd like to have a word with you,' Kirk began. 'In five minutes, in your quarters?'

Spock looked momentarily startled, perhaps as much at the fact that Kirk had made a request rather than an order as at the simple fact that Jim felt it necessary to take time out of the beam-down preparations for a private discussion.

'Of course, Captain,' he nodded. 'I will see you there at – eleven thirty seven.'

Jim smiled, the expression momentarily effacing the look of mild concern that had been on his face.

'Eleven thirty seven,' he repeated in a tone of muted amusement, then nodded briefly, and returned to the command chair to complete his final checks before handing over the bridge to Mr Scott.

******

It was, in fact, eleven forty before Kirk pressed the buzzer at Spock's cabin door. Spock raised his eyes from the computer screen and called, 'Come.' He waited in silence as Kirk entered the room, curious as to what it was the captain required of him. He would ordinarily have spent this time in absorbing as much information as possible about the culture they were about to beam into, just as Kirk would have, and it was abnormal to say the least for Kirk to cut into that time with personal concerns.

'Captain?' he prompted after a moment of silence.

Kirk came across the room and sat down in the chair opposite his first officer, regarding him steadily, but still saying nothing.

'Captain, you wished to speak with me,' Spock reminded him. 'We do not have a great deal of time before we are scheduled to beam down.'

'No, I know,' Kirk said finally. 'Spock – ' He inhaled deeply, then began again, 'Spock, call me illogical, call me an emotional, superstitious human – but I have a bad feeling about this mission.'

Spock raised an eyebrow. 'Such 'feelings' often are the result of superstition, or of certain unresolved emotions,' he pointed out. 'And they are certainly illogical.'

Kirk smiled wryly. 'That may be so,' he nodded, 'but this feeling does at least have some basis in fact. Wouldn't you agree that a successful mission is often dependent on every member of the team being in top condition – being perfectly focussed on the task at hand?'

Spock inclined his head in a brief nod. 'Invariably.'

'And if a member of that team doesn't seem to be at his best?' Kirk continued.

'If you have reason to suspect that Dr McCoy – ' Spock began, but his captain shook his head.

'Not Dr McCoy. _*You_*, Spock. You've seemed introverted and distracted for days,' he said gently. 'I'm worried about you. There isn't trouble with your family, is there? Your parents?'

Spock shook his head mutely, then looked up, managing a lightness in his eyes that was approaching the Vulcan version of a smile. 'No, Captain,' he said steadily. 'There is nothing of that kind troubling me.'

'Then there _*is_* something troubling you?' Kirk asked. He had learnt to read between the lines with the Vulcan long ago. 'Spock, it's too early for – well, for pon farr, isn't it?'

Spock's face twitched as if the captain had hit a nerve, then said, 'It is, almost precisely, three point five years since my last pon farr.'

Kirk ran a finger pensively along the edge of the desk, realising that that amount of time, exactly halfway through the average Vulcan's mating cycle, was far *_too_* precise to be a coincidence.

'Then you've got three and a half years to – find a mate,' he speculated.

Spock's head dropped again. 'If my cycle, affected by human genetics as it is, is the same as the rest of my species. If it is not affected by my living away from the circadian rhythms of Vulcan. If it is not altered by being removed from the influence of millions of other Vulcan bodies. If the severing of my bond with T'Pring does not affect the call.'

Kirk smiled gently, reaching out to touch the Vulcan's slim blue-clad shoulder. 'In short, Spock, you're worrying if you're normal. We all worry about that, you know.'

Spock looked up, briefly meeting the captain's gaze. For a moment there seemed to be unspoken books in his eyes, but then he dropped his head again.

'I, at least, am absolutely certain that I am not normal,' he said, with a very slight edge of irony in his voice.

Again Kirk got the sense that there were deeper reams of words that he wanted to utter, but could not. He tightened his hand on Spock's shoulder, relieved at least that the Vulcan was not in any immediate trouble, despite the fact that there were obviously more layers to his tension than he could speak of in the short time available.

'Spock, we've got about two minutes before we need to be in the transporter room,' he said carefully. 'But when this mission's over, we can talk about this.'

Spock nodded. He seemed relieved that the discussion was over for now, and Kirk wondered if he would make excuses to avoid opening it up again after they had finished on Malker. Jim did intend to continue to discuss it, however. Spock was far too important an officer to lose him to perverse Vulcan biology, whether that biology asserted itself in three months, or three years or thirty years from now.

There was an odd part of him that felt a curious jealousy at the idea of Spock becoming joined to another anonymous Vulcan woman. Perhaps it was because they shared so much of their lives with each other as a consequence of their positions on the ship, or just at the thought of a woman inserting herself into a friendship that was deeper than any Kirk had ever experienced with another man. But still, he would go as far as starships would take him to ensure that when the time came, Spock had a partner who could ease him through it without the pain and anguish that his first pon farr had caused.

******

Captain Kirk beamed down to Malker with his first officer at his right, and Chief Medical Officer McCoy at his left, precisely on schedule. Spock acted characteristically as if the conversation in his quarters had never happened, and if McCoy noticed any lingering tension in the air he certainly did not mention it.

They were met on beamdown by a party of Malkerian officials, led to a chamber in a large municipal building, and sat for over two hours, talking through the details of the Federation, and how a connection with it would benefit Malker. Spock showed no sign of boredom at any point, but Kirk found it almost impossible to sit patiently through the protracted conversations with various officials. He had not signed up to Starfleet to act the part of a diplomat.

After two hours they were cordially invited to leave the building and spend some time, without a chaperone, exploring the city streets and introducing themselves to Malkerian life. Kirk silently blessed whichever anonymous person it was who had inserted this small spell of freedom into the schedule. Later they were due to return to the building for an official dinner with representatives of the local monarch, who, although answerable to the planetwide government, was the most senior official in this province. The meal promised to be just as formal and stuffy as the meetings had been, and Kirk was determined to make the most of these few hours outside, exploring new surroundings and a new culture.

They stood momentarily on the steps of the building, regarding the vista before them. The city was large and sprawling, but this area at least was spacious, with courtyards and formally planted borders separating the cluster of official buildings. The place seemed to be almost obsessively neat, tidy and quiet, with no hint of any civilian disorder to ruffle the peaceful surroundings.

'Well, gentlemen,' Kirk said, looking to the left and right. 'Any ideas?'

'I was told of a museum of science and technology to the north of our location,' Spock suggested. 'It was warmly recommended by one of the officials as worthy of perusal.'

'If you think I'm gonna spend four hours staring at early examples of electric light bulbs and computers, you must be crazy,' McCoy said vehemently. 'Jim, apparently there's a certain bar further on down this street that's got a reputation as one of the city's best. I know we can't exactly partake, but it'd give us a more *_relevant*_ look at these people's culture,' he said, looking pointedly at Spock. 'Besides, I hear the women there are – '

'I'm sure the women there are…' Kirk smiled, patting the doctor's arm. 'All right, Bones – you've sold me. I'm sorry, Spock, but I think on this occasion the habits of the living outweigh the relics of the dead and gone.'

Spock was silent for a moment, then nodded his head once. 'I quite understand, Captain,' he told him. He took his communicator from his hip, checking briefly that it was in good working order. 'I will call you to rendezvous when I am finished,' he said. 'Enjoy your – cultural outing, Doctor,' he said crisply, before turning and stalking away down a side street in the direction of the museum.

'Think we offended him, Jim?' McCoy asked, leaning close to Kirk's ear as the blue clad back disappeared around a corner. Even at this distance, a Vulcan's hearing was startlingly acute.

'Oh, I don't think so, Bones,' Kirk smiled. 'Spock's well used to the differences between Vulcans and humans by now. He's just giving as good as he got.'

'What's he given me, exactly?' McCoy asked dubiously.

'A sense of guilt,' Kirk replied with a grin. 'Come on, Bones. Let's go find this bar.'

******

Spock had been found not long after kneeling over the savagely beaten body of a woman, with blood on his hands and no explanation as to how she had come to die. The first Kirk had known of the incident was when he was approached in the bar he and McCoy had found by two grave Malkerian officials. He was taken aside, and told in muted terms of what had happened, and the thudding music and chatter in the background seemed to fade into silence at their words. By that time Spock was securely locked away in the custody of the local police, with no right to receive either visitors or communication with his friends.

'Goddammit, Jim, *_you*_ know he couldn't have done it, *_I* _know he couldn't've done it,' McCoy raged helplessly on their return to the ship.

'Yes, of course I know that,' Kirk said snappishly as they stepped down from the transporter.

'Then why aren't we down there helping him?' McCoy pushed, his voice approaching a growl.

'Bones, in case you didn't notice, we were forcibly ejected from the planet,' Kirk said tersely, moving swiftly over to the transporter console. He pressed the button on the intercom as if it had done him a personal wrong, ignoring the startled transporter officer. 'Bridge. Uhura, get me the nearest Federation consul,' he snapped. 'I'll be up there in two minutes to take the call.'

He flicked the intercom off without waiting for an answer, and turned back to McCoy.

'If we'd stayed there arguing we'd be in police cells now too,' he continued. 'They don't want any representatives of Starfleet on their soil right now. We had no choice but to beam up.'

'Jim, have you looked over their record on crime and punishment? Are you aware that they still support the death penalty down there?' McCoy asked him with deadly seriousness. 'Hell, they execute people for crimes as petty as theft. For a murder like that – '

'Which is why I am going to do nothing – _*nothing*_ – to prejudice Spock's case,' Kirk nodded, sweeping through the door and into the corridor. 'Sometimes barging in like a rabid Klingon isn't the best method, Bones. I have absolutely no intention of letting this even get as far as a trial, let alone a sentence – but we have to at least try to do it by the book.'

'By the book,' McCoy muttered. 'If you want my advice – '

'Right at this moment, Doctor, I don't,' Kirk said harshly. 'I'm going to the bridge to _*try_* to sort out this mess through diplomatic channels. You'd do best by taking the scant evidence we have to the sick bay and doing what you can there.'

'Jim, we have no evidence,' McCoy protested.

'You have Spock's last psychological report, don't you? You have an idea of how the crime was committed, and what type of person might do that? Just – do what you can. Do _*anything_*, as long as that doesn't include beaming back down to Malker and jeopardising Spock's chances of anything approaching a fair hearing by insulting the authorities and getting yourself arrested too!'

******

Forty-eight hours later, Kirk was forced to acknowledge that, with the might of phasers, photon torpedoes and four hundred and thirty willing crew members behind him, there was very little that he could do. Starfleet diplomatic services, while sympathetic, were reluctant to put the entire nascent relationship with Malker in jeopardy for the sake of one person, even if that one person was a valued Starfleet officer. Malker had rich veins of both dilithium and pergium beneath its surface, and the presence of those substances not only promised benefit to the Federation if the planet came under its influence, but conversely would promise harm to both Malker and the Federation if it fell into Klingon or Romulan hands.

He had a few facts in his grasp, mostly gained through the persuasive skills of Lieutenant Uhura. As far as he could tell, passers-by had been alerted to the murder by the brief noise of screaming in a rarely frequented alley. The first person on the scene had reported seeing a woman, face down, obviously dead, and the pointed-eared alien kneeling beside her, his hands on her arms, in the process of turning her over. The witness speculated motives of sexual assault rather than theft – the woman seemed to have no bag or jewellery, and the alien seemed to be attempting to rip her top apart.

'To assess her injuries, I'm guessing,' McCoy muttered at that point in the report. 'What's the first thing Spock would do on seeing an injured person? First aid procedures, assessing the damage…'

'It's what any of us would've done,' Kirk replied, waving a hand dismissively at the statement. It went without saying that neither of them believed in Spock's guilt.

On being challenged, the report continued, the alien had turned around to the witness and asked, plainly and blatantly, if the police had been called. When the witness had said something about summoning medical help, the alien had said, impassively, that since the woman was quite dead there was little need for medical aid.

The facts, or so called facts, in the report seemed to blur into a condemnatory whole in front of Kirk's eyes. Spock's rational, logical approach to questioning was taken as the cold-hearted stance of a psychotic murderer. The blood on him, his DNA scattered about the scene, and his fingerprints on the murder weapon, were taken as evidence of his guilt. His statement that he had lost consciousness briefly and inexplicably was taken as a blatant lie, since he had no marks on him and no drugs in his system.

'They've got no idea of Vulcan psychology,' McCoy sighed, his eyes slipping over fragments of sentences.

Cold-blooded … unnaturally calm … complete lack of empathy.

The report described a Vulcan as seen through completely uneducated eyes. On first view Spock would seem aspergic, autistic even. It did not take long to see beneath the logical, unemotional surface of Spock's personality, but his accusers were more concerned with explaining why he may have committed the crime than why he may be innocent.

'I'd just beam him up and warp out of here if I had any idea where they were holding him,' Kirk muttered, his mind slipping away from the report that seemed to give him very little hope.

Despite what he had said to McCoy two days ago, direct action was his preferred method. If he could he would have beamed down with a phaser in each hand and fought his way to Spock like a hero from an old fashion movie. Lawyers and diplomats could go to hell. They had been given their chance, and failed. He couldn't stand the thought of Spock sitting helpless in a Malkerian cell, completely at the mercy of an alien system of justice.

'Jim, what were you saying to me about rabid Klingons?' McCoy asked pointedly. 'You can't just – '

'Oh, I can't anyway,' Kirk said tiredly.

He pushed his cup away restlessly, then pulled it back and took a deep mouthful of the strong coffee. He had drunk far too much coffee in the last few days – but it was better than drinking Saurian brandy, which would have been his first choice if he hadn't had to keep his mind clear.

'We've got no idea where they're keeping him,' he continued, pulling up a map of the main continent of Malker onto his computer screen, gazing at it uselessly, then shutting the image down again. 'No one'll tell me a damn thing, and we can't find him on scans – at least not on scans that they won't pick up. They might not have invented beaming shields yet, but I bet they've learnt how to disguise life-signs from sensors.'

'If Starfleet got hold of him they'd probably send him right back there anyway,' McCoy said darkly. 'What price a human life in the face of a good chunk of dilithium?'

'Human life,' Kirk repeated, with a faint laugh. 'Spock would be insulted, Bones.'

'He shouldn't be,' McCoy muttered, turning his attention back to the closely printed words in the report. 'I just paid him a compliment.'

******

Four weeks later, the swiftness of Malkerian justice had run its course. No plea or entreaty from either Kirk himself or ranks of Federation diplomats had swayed their decision. The Malkerians, it seemed, were fiercely proud of their ability to dispense absolute justice, swiftly, neatly, and irrevocably.

The verdict was guilty, and the sentence was death. The condemned had a month in which to consider both his past and his future, and any petitions against the sentence had to be lodged within that month, by registered Malkerian lawyers.

Kirk managed, at least, to gain permission from Starfleet to stay in orbit around Malker right until the bitter end. He fought tirelessly, hour after hour, trying to find a Malkerian lawyer who would lodge a petition, trying to find or even invent new evidence that would crack the seemingly impenetrable case that the prosecutors had put together. It was like working blind, with his hands tied behind his back. He could not gain permission from the planet's officials to beam down in order to carry out any kind of investigation or to speak to people in person. He could not find out any more details of the case, he had not been allowed to attend the trial, he was not allowed to visit Spock or communicate with him in any way. Every time he thought he had found a way to turn a barrier rose before him.

His one solace, if it could be called a solace, was that a week before the scheduled time for the execution he had finally, _*finally_*, been granted a visit with Spock, since every condemned prisoner was allowed one visit in which to tie up loose ends or say final words. That visit had been agony for him, and, he suspected, it had been agony for Spock too. He had seemed healthy enough, and calm, and accepting of his fate, but accepting that something would happen was far from desiring what would happen. Spock wanted to die no more than any other person.

And then the time allotted for the visit had slipped away, and he beamed back to the ship. And then the days slipped away until it was a week until that final date, half a week, a day, an hour…

He sat now on the bridge, staring at the chronometer between the navigator and helmsman's consoles. McCoy had tried to persuade him to change his duty hours – to have this moment privately instead of in the public arena of the bridge – but he could not stand the idea of sitting in his quarters, alone, listening to every tick of the reconstructed antique clock on the wall. He had forgotten about the clock here, directly in front of his chair, directly in front of his eyes. Accurate measurement of time was of paramount importance in the navigating and running of a starship. He wished for black holes, for extreme gravity, for previously unknown stellar phenomena – anything that might distort that relentless, mindless movement of the clock before him.

McCoy stood behind him, one hand on the back of the captain's chair, his eyes magnetised to the clock with the same reluctant compulsion. Everyone's eyes seemed to be directed to something that showed them ship time, or Malkerian time, or both.

He felt the chair shake, as if McCoy's grip had momentarily tightened.

'That's it,' Kirk said dully, watching the number tick over on the clock. 'It's over. Spock's – '

Words failed him. Something hard seemed to be growing in his throat, trying to force its way up and out of his mouth like a nightmare creature. His chest _*hurt_*. He stood up abruptly and moved blindly to the lift, not even trusting himself to call someone to take the conn.

The doors slid closed behind him, and he collapsed backwards against the cool, solid wall, having the presence of mind to take hold of the control handle so as to keep the doors from opening again, but unable to speak to direct the lift to another deck. The hardness in his throat exploded, giving birth to a rough, choking sob that he bit back into his mouth even as it rose. Wetness spilt over from his eyes, and he stared as a single drop burst on the floor, astonished at the force of this grief that wanted to shatter his body, crumple his fragile ribs and limbs and lungs down to a hunk of insignificant matter, peel all façade away from him until he was nothing more than a kneeling, weeping, defenceless child.

His mind dragged itself relentlessly back to the way he had last seen Spock. Hands bound by slim metal cuffs, wearing a one-piece overall of pale blue, he had still looked meticulously neat, clean, and astonishingly sanguine. The idea had been mooted that the last visit, with a condemned murderer, should be through a viewscreen rather than in person – but Kirk had used every power of persuasion in his arsenal to have it that they were there, together, in the same room.

Here he could smell the faintest scent of the Vulcan's body rising from his inhumanly hot skin, mottled over by the odour of unfamiliar, utilitarian soap that held hints of disinfectant in its chemical scent. He could almost feel the heat from Spock's body, sitting just two feet away from him across a low table. He could hear every long, controlled, calm breath, every movement of fabric on skin, even the occasional murmur from his digestive tract. He could see the faint flutter of his pulse in his neck, the dark greenish tint of veins beneath his skin – every single irrefutable sign of bounteous, healthy, determined life. It was almost too painful to bear, but he would not have swapped this physical meeting with an electronic one for the entire galaxy.

He could barely remember what they had spoken of, and he would have hated himself for that failure had it not been for the slim datachip that a prison official had handed him as he left – an audio-visual recording, a bizarre souvenir of this last meeting. As it was, he could only be grateful for the lapse in memory since in seemed to allow him to remember those things that a simple video recording could not give him – those scents and tiny sounds that could not be picked up by a machine.

He had not yet brought himself to watch the tape. He had locked it in his safe as if it was a sliver of radioactive material, and had not even let his eyes fall on the box it was in since. It was not so much the words he was afraid of, or of seeing the image of his warm, vital friend after he must in reality be dead. He was terrified of reliving that one moment, just before he had been compelled to leave, when Spock's sanguine, intelligent gaze had flickered, and his eyes had become translucent with an honest, bone-deep fear.


	3. Chapter 2

2.

Spock was forced awake as his lungs shuddered breath into his body. His eyes tried to blink but would not open. Neither would his mouth. He was sucking in air in gasps through his nostrils, his chest heaving with the effort. He felt – *_awful*_.

It took him a moment to realise that this meant he was not dead.

If he had believed in heaven or hell, he might have speculated that he was in hell – or perhaps purgatory, at the very least. As it was, the only explanation for the extreme illness he felt was that he was alive to feel it. His heart thudded in his side as his body released adrenaline at that incredible fact, before he had the control to suppress the emotional reaction and begin to assess his situation.

He was lying on his back on a very uncomfortable surface, his arms folded up on his chest and his hands over where his heart would be, were he Malkerian. The very discomfort of his position – the pain of stones and debris pressing into his _*living_* tissue – was a beautiful truth at that moment. Heat washed around him, and a bright light like sunlight was pushing through his eyelids. The scent around him was appalling – the air heaved with the smell of meat left warm too long. Then his awareness narrowed down to the building tension in his stomach, and he raised his hands to his mouth and ripped away the tape that was holding it closed.

He just had time to roll stiffly onto his side before he vomited profusely, the bitter taste of the drug that was in his system lingering on his tongue. He lay long enough to be sure he had emptied his stomach, then rolled back onto his back, panting and exhausted. Only now did he register that his hands were bound together at the wrists.

He lifted his hands to his face and carefully pulled the tape off his eyes. At first the increase in light was almost unbearable. His head ached so much that he could not focus, but he gradually managed to force his eyes into seeing with more clarity. He blinked into the sunlight, taking in the sight of a cloudless blue sky and a burning sun almost exactly above his position. There was the slight shimmer of some kind of transparent material not far above his head, but beyond that, there was nothing but the depths of the sky.

He lifted his hands again to examine what bound them. It was the same tape as had been on his eyes and mouth, wrapped round and around his wrists. It was obviously designed not to fetter, but simply to keep the body in a certain position after death. He pulled hard, and finally the tape broke.

Spock drew in a deep breath, and began to sit up. The skin of his chest and stomach seared as he moved, stiff and burnt from the blazing sun. As he moved he smelt a pungent smell, and felt a dampness under his buttocks, and realised that at some point in his unconsciousness he had succumbed to violent diarrhoea as his body tried every method to rid itself of the poison. The same bitter taste that was in his mouth was evident in the scent of the diarrhoea, and in the sheen of sweat that covered his skin. Presumably the drug he had been given was calculated to kill Malkerians, and had not been adjusted to suit his Vulcan physiology. For that, he could only be grateful.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady the pounding and dizziness in his head. Then, finally, he allowed himself to look around.

A moment of shock ran through his body before he could suppress it. He had been lying as just one in a long line of bodies, all in various stages of desiccation under the hot sun. All were lying in the same position he had been, all with their mouths and eyes taped shut, and with their hands held neatly together on their chests. Some looked moderately fresh, while others were completely mummified by the drying action of the sun above. They were all lying in a metre deep trench that had been cut into the red soil, that was not much wider than the length of a human body, and that stretched away from Spock on either side for at least a hundred metres.

Spock closed his eyes again. He felt seriously unwell.

He could not allow himself to feel unwell. He had to concentrate on escape, a feat which he did not imagine would be simple. He was completely naked from head to toe. He would have to travel on bare feet, without any protection from the elements. He could only be glad that he was built for a hot climate, so he was at little risk from this hot sun beyond superficial sunburn. But he was thirsty, and his stomach was empty, and his entire body was suffused with a debilitating sickness.

Spock took a deep breath, and raised himself to his knees, moving himself away from the pungent patches of vomit and diarrhoea where he had been lying. He was guessing that the shimmer above him was a force field. He lifted his hand slowly, and touched the barrier. It was not painful to touch, but it was unyieldingly solid – it was simply there, he assumed, to stop wild animals, or perhaps even people, from entering the pit and desecrating the bodies. That perhaps meant that there were carnivores – or at least scavengers – in this area, lending another level of danger to his flight.

The first problem, however, was how to get past the forcefield and exit the trench.

Spock sighed. He would have to do something distasteful.

The bodies around him were all fresh ones. The trench to his left was empty but for one body, unnaturally stiff with rigor mortis, that had presumably been deposited after him. Further to his right they gradually became more and more desiccated until they were virtually mummified. Spock crawled down the trench, trying to ignore the fact that he was crawling over bodies, until he reached one that was desiccated enough for his purposes.

Spock closed his mind to the moral implications of what he was about to do. He was simply making a tool with the resources at hand. He closed his hands firmly about the corpse's arm, and snapped it quickly just below the elbow. The bone was brittle, but strong enough. He ripped away the dry remnants of flesh and sinew until he was holding the bare ulna in his hand, then rapidly turned his back on the unfortunate corpse and made his way back to where he had been lying.

It was at that point that he remembered the transponder that had been inserted under his skin shortly after his conviction. It was too dangerous to leave it in there. He felt for the slight bump under the skin of his upper arm. Then, after a couple of seconds of mental preparation, he used the fractured end of the bone he held to gouge into his skin. After what seemed an interminable length of time he found the tiny chip, and picked it out with his fingernails. He placed it carefully on the ground, then peeled away a short length of the adherent tape that had bound his wrists and used it to press over the wound in his arm that was seeping blood.

That done, he turned to the one corpse that had been to his left, removed its own transponder, and slipped his between its lips. He placed the other transponder on top of a flat pebble, and ground it to dust with another stone. He picked up the scraps of tape that had been on his body and attached them to the bone he held, reasoning it was best to remove all evidence of his presence, and also to keep hold of a possibly useful resource. Then he carefully manoeuvred the body to lie where he had been lying, and crawled away from it to the empty end of the trench.

Spock allowed himself a moment of rest, and then he took the arm bone and set it to the purpose he had taken it for – scraping away at the side of the trench to make himself a hole he could slip through to bypass the forcefield. It took a long while to create an opening big enough, but finally there was a gap just as wide as his torso, and he heaved himself up and over the edge of the trench.

He lay for a moment flat on the ground, looking around as well as he could. There were no buildings, no guard towers, no fences. This was simply an isolated spot where bodies were deposited, and there was obviously no need for any kind of outpost to watch over it. Behind him lay trench upon trench, the lines of them receding into the distance, presumably each holding bodies like the trench he had been in. The thought of that much methodical, deliberate death chilled him. No matter what the victims had done to receive that fate, he could not believe that they had deserved to be put through what he had been put through, without even Vulcan mental disciplines to help reconcile themselves to their deaths.

He turned his back on the trenches, endeavouring to put them out of his mind, and turned towards what he hoped would be his avenue of escape. He appeared to be on some kind of high plateau, that began to descend very near his position. There was scrubby vegetation beginning very near to where he lay, and further down he could see trees and grass. At least that meant food and moisture, even if that food was just leaves and grass. From this height he could see no signs of towns or infrastructure. He imagined from the geography that he was somewhere in the sub-equator region of Prendist - the planet's principal continent and the place where he had been imprisoned – but it was impossible to be certain. With no idea of how long he had been unconscious he couldn't even tell if he was on the same longitude. He must be miles and miles away from the city where he had been held, but he was certain that there would at least be isolated dwellings at some point in this area. There looked to be spots of cultivation, so surely there would be farms.

A shiver of fever pushed over him, but he had to ignore the feelings of sickness. It was paramount that he get himself to a place of concealment as soon as possible. Spock crawled on his belly away from the pit, making for the closest patch of vegetation. He carried on crawling for some time, ignoring the scratches and bruises he gained as he pushed through briars and crawled over rocks. Finally, when he judged himself to be far enough away from the plateau, he rose to his feet, oriented himself towards the forest below, and ran.

He only stopped when he was far enough below the tree line to be certain he was safe from being seen from the plateau above. He sat down heavily on a mossy rock, taking stock of his situation as he gasped air into his lungs. He was naked. He was extremely unwell. He had nothing with him but the broken arm bone and some tape. His only advantage was that technically he was no longer a wanted criminal, since, officially, he was dead – so there would be no search parties out looking for him.

His first priority at the moment was to find a source of water, and soon after that a place to shelter and rest through the night. He needed to recover his strength and throw off the effects of the poison. He had been sick two more times as he crawled away from the trench, and it seemed likely that he would be sick again. In the absence of any kind of medical help, the only thing he could do was rest. Anything else could come later.

******

It took him little more than half an hour to find a stream in the woods that seemed clean enough to drink from. First, Spock sated his thirst by scooping up the clear water in his cupped hands, washing the bitter taste out of his mouth and giving his stomach something to fill it, even if it was nutritionally useless. Then he moved downstream and crouched close to the water and cleaned his diarrhoea soiled buttocks and thighs, using handfuls of leaves to try to keep his hands as clean as possible. Then he moved back upstream, and looked about himself for some way to keep himself warm through the night.

There were plenty of stands of short, shrubby trees around, something like Earth's hazel trees. He had no tools to cut wood, but he thought perhaps he could form some kind of shelter by weaving the branches of some of the trees together. There were also fern-like growths in abundance, whose big leaves would serve to weave into the sticks to insulate his shelter. He set to work intently, and after an hour he had formed himself a low, windproof shelter that was just big enough for him to curl up in. He covered the ground inside with a generous layer of dead leaves and more of the verdant ferns, and turned to the next problem – food.

Spock had seen plenty of appetising mushrooms, nuts and fruits about the forest as he had gathered fern leaves for his shelter, but he could not tell whether they would nourish him or kill him, so he left them well alone. The same was true of roots or seeds, or even leaves, on this alien planet. One scan with a tricorder would tell him everything he needed to know, but he was without such useful devices, so he resigned himself to ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach, and wait until tomorrow, when perhaps he would be able to find something more obviously safe to eat.

Since it was growing dark, and there was nothing more to be gained from sitting out here in the forest, Spock crawled into his low shelter and curled himself up on the leaves, pulling more fern leaves over himself as a rudimentary blanket. He had slept very little in the week leading up to the failed execution, and his body had obviously been under great strain since the supposedly lethal chemical was released into his bloodstream. He felt truly exhausted, and did not have to wait long before sleep claimed him.

******

He was woken by the early light of dawn piercing the leaves of his shelter. He had slept remarkably well on his bed of leaves, and felt less ill than he had the day before. He lay still for a moment, then wriggled carefully out into the forest where he could stretch his stiff limbs. As he looked down at himself in the daylight he realised just how filthy he was, covered in dust and mud and trickles of dried blood from his crawl away from the trench. The stream served him again as a makeshift bath. This time he slipped into the chill water of a deep pool and tried to scrub the blood and dirt and toxin-tainted sweat from his body. He emerged shivering, but refreshed, and allowed his own body heat to evaporate the water away from his skin as he stood beside his shelter. The shelter had served him well, but he saw no sense in remaining here longer than necessary, so he took the time as he dried to dismantle it, strewing the limp leaves about in an effort to disguise his presence here. Then he began to journey down through the forest.

He saw very few wild animals as he picked his way through the trees. He could hear birdsong, and caught an occasional glimpse of furred mammalian creatures in the undergrowth or in the branches above. He was most wary of snakes or insects that might prove poisonous, especially with his bare feet, but he saw none. He was also acutely conscious of the catastrophe that might result from injuring his feet. He needed to be able to travel, and to keep travelling, until he found some way to contact the _Enterprise_ and arrange a rescue. He imagined the _Enterprise_ had probably stayed in orbit until news of the supposed execution had reached them, but he had no idea whether Captain Kirk would be allowed to stay past this point, or even whether he would deem it necessary.

He had walked what he judged to be around three miles, following the stream he had found, when a noise caught his ears. It was a shriek – the sound of a humanoid child shouting in excitement, echoing through the trees off to his right. He altered his course and moved towards the noise cautiously. As he came closer he caught glimpses of a structure through the trees, and eventually made out a house that was standing in a wide clearing in the woods. He halted, suddenly highly conscious of his nudity. As he stood concealed behind a tree he saw a woman step out through the house door, and call out into the trees. After a moment two dishevelled children appeared, disappeared into the house, then reappeared some minutes later with the woman, looking far more presentable. The three of them got into an aircar which rose and hovered for a moment above the trees, before accelerating, and disappearing.

Spock crept closer to the house, then crouched behind a low shrub, listening intently. He could hear no other signs of life. The hum of the aircar had faded away. He needed to take his chance now.

He pelted across the clearing to the house door, and tried the handle. It was not locked. Spock slipped inside and assessed his surroundings rapidly. He was in a hallway with three doors opening off it, and stairs on his left. He could see through the open doors that these downstairs rooms were bedrooms. He found what looked like an adult's room and began to search the cupboards inside. He found underwear, socks and trousers, only a little too big, and then a shirt and a sweater to go with them. There was a pile of shoes in the hallway, and he rifled through them until he found a pair which should fit him well enough. He snatched a hat off a hook in the hall that he could use that to pull down over his glaringly alien ears and eyebrows.

Then he crept upstairs and made a quick survey of the rooms there. He was looking for some kind of transmitter, but he didn't see one. Next he searched for the kitchen. It didn't take long to gather together some choice pieces of fruit and other food into a bag, carefully picking small pieces that he hoped would not be missed. He found an old plastic bottle in the bin which he cleaned quickly and filled with water. He took a look around to satisfy himself that it was not obvious he had been here, then left as swiftly as possible.

******

He crouched in the wood, pulling on the clothes with careful speed. The man who owned them was obviously a little taller and a little more heavily built than him, but he found use in the sticky tape he had kept, in binding the two of the belt loops of the trousers a little closer together to stop them from slipping down. It did not matter so much that the shirt and sweater were a little large, and the shoes were close enough to the right size with the thick pair of socks he had stolen. The hat was like so many others he had been forced to wear in the past – knitted and stretchy enough to pull down over his ears and, if necessary, his eyebrows. It was, he admitted, a relief to be fully dressed once again. At least the strangeness of his situation would not be immediately evident, now he was not naked and filthy.

His next priority was to move away from this location, and in the process to find a house that contained some kind of transmitter with which he could contact the _Enterprise_. He moved closer to the building again, assessing his surroundings. There was no real road to the house – presumably access was usually by aircar. There was a narrow track leading away from the place through the woods, but, considering the inhabitants of the house, it was just as likely to lead to a favoured picnic spot or secret den as to anywhere of use to Spock. He acted on the only information he had, uneasily relying on supposition instead of facts. He began walking in the direction in which the aircar had flown, which also happened to be downhill, in the hope of finding himself led closer to civilisation.

******

After an hour of walking he was forced to admit that he was not yet well enough to travel. He had managed to suppress his body's protests until now, but they were coming back with a vengeance. The only small morsel of food he had been able to bring himself to eat he had vomited back onto the ground almost instantly, despite his hunger. His head was pounding again, and his legs felt barely able to support him. He sank onto the ground and rested his head on his knees, trying to steady his breathing and the trembling sickness throughout his body. Perhaps it would be necessary to find somewhere to rest again for a while, while his body continued to fight off the poison permeating his cells.

It was twenty-seven hours – the length of a full revolution of the Malkerian globe – before Spock came across another house that he was able to consider entering. He estimated he had walked less than five miles, but that walk had been broken up by the necessity of frequent rests and a twelve hour sleep through the darkness of night. He crouched, watching, until he judged all of the occupants to be out, and then streaked across the open garden surrounding the place and searched until he found a window that he could force open.

This house was much neater and tidier than the previous one. He did not imagine it would be as easy to steal small items or cover his tracks, but this place did, at least, have a communications device. He stood in front of the console, familiarising himself swiftly with the controls. He had beamed down to Malker with very little knowledge of the main language here, but two months in a Malkerian prison cell had provided him with some opportunity to study the orthography. He was by no means proficient, but he could understand enough of the onscreen instructions to use the device. It should be relatively easy to convince the console that he was an authorised user, and to cover the traces of his signal.

He worked at the controls for a few moments, then keyed in the required frequency to reach the _Enterprise_ and Captain Kirk.

There was a long, heart-stopping pause. Spock began to wonder if the frequencies were correct, or if the ship was even in range - and then the captain's voice said, 'Kirk here.'

His voice was laden down with tiredness.

'Jim,' Spock said, the relief audible in his tone. 'This is Commander Spock.'

There was a silence, then Kirk's voice said bitterly, 'If this is supposed to be a joke, it's not remotely funny. Commander Spock is dead.'

'Jim, I am not dead,' Spock insisted. He had expected difficulties in reaching the ship, but he had forgotten that the news of his supposed execution would be taken as fact there. 'Jim, please believe me. I am who I am.' He hesitated, then remembered, 'In our last game of chess I beat you by taking your king with my final remaining rook. You laughed, and ordered me to lose the next game. We were in my quarters, sat either side of my desk, you drinking Saurian brandy and I _*sh'var_*. No one else witnessed that game.'

'Spock?' Kirk asked, the glimmerings of belief in his tone. 'Spock, explain?'

'The drug they attempted to use to execute me was not compatible with Vulcan physiology,' Spock said briskly. 'It gave the appearance of death, but I did not die.'

'Are you all right?' Kirk asked in amazement.

'I am not well. Jim, I have very little time. I require rescue. If I am discovered there is little doubt that their mistake will be rectified.'

'Spock, where are you?' Kirk asked, sounding totally bewildered.

Spock sighed. This was not going to be quick or easy. 'I am not certain. You must trace this signal. I believe I am somewhere on the main continent of Malker.'

'Give me a moment.' The channel fell silent, presumably as Kirk put another call through to communications. 'We'll have your position in a minute, Spock.'

'Are you able to extract me at the present time?' Spock asked urgently.

'Spock, we're tied into a mission to deliver to supplies to Magna 4,' Kirk said, his voice loaded with guilt. 'It's absolutely vital. We're already four days out from Malker. It'll take us two weeks at top warp to get to Magna 4 and back.'

'Unfortunate,' Spock murmured. 'Then you left Malker – '

'Just a hour after – ' Kirk trailed off, and Spock knew that the captain had ordered the ship away from Malker as soon as he had been assured of his friend's death. That meant that he had been in his death-like coma for over two days.

'Can you access this terminal again?' Kirk asked quickly. 'I can update you with our progress.'

'Uncertain,' Spock said tersely. 'I have broken into this house. I cannot stay long without risk of discovery.'

He fell silent for a moment, and grew aware of the familiar background noises of an _Enterprise_ rec room. He felt a moment's pang of something which must be homesickness, that he pushed away instantly. Regretting his situation would not help him.

Then he heard noises that were immediate and undistorted by the communicator. There were people outside, talking merrily, approaching the house.

'Do you have my position?' he asked urgently. 'I must sever the communication.'

'Yes, just,' Kirk said quickly. 'Spock, try to contact us again in a week.'

'I will. Be aware I may be forced to move to find food and shelter,' Spock said quickly, then cut the communication.

He had no time to try to cover the traces of his communication. The front door of the house was being unlocked. He would have to rely on the usual ineptitude of most people with technological devices to blind them to the fact or the destination of his call. As the owners of the house entered at the front door Spock slipped out through the window through which he had made entry, and dropped to the ground as silently as a cat.


	4. Chapter 3

3.

'What was that, Jim?' McCoy asked curiously as the captain made his way back to their table in the rec room.

Kirk had vacillated over the last four days between sullen despondency and outright grief, punctuated only by his duty shifts and long evening spells of drinking an excess of spirits. It was hard enough for the doctor to accept the loss of Spock, especially when it had happened in such a awful, unstoppable way, but it was even worse for Kirk, who counted Spock as his closest friend, worked closely with him on the bridge and on away missions, and spent almost every other evening socialising with him. McCoy had been considering hauling him into sickbay for a serious discussion about the way he was handling the loss, and this rec room meal was the time he had chosen to make that announcement, hoping not only to catch Kirk off his guard but also to ensure that he consumed a healthy meal for the first time in weeks.

But, as Jim returned from the intercom, for the first time since Spock's death he looked enlivened, almost to the point of agitation. McCoy could not tell whether this was through good or bad news, but it was certainly mood-altering news. Kirk was too restless to reseat himself at the table, contrasting starkly with his lethargic mood a few minutes ago. Being off duty, the captain had almost ignored the summons to the intercom – it was only the remnants of his sense of obligation to the ship that had sent him across the room to press the button.

Kirk looked at McCoy with an odd expression in his eyes, then said in a voice much more like his normal tone, 'Bones, come with me. I need to talk to you.'

'Jim, your meal,' McCoy protested, waving a hand at the tuna salad that his friend had hardly touched.

'Hang the meal. I need to talk to you,' Kirk said more firmly. 'In my quarters – *_now*_.'

McCoy looked up, startled at his tone, then got his feet, piling the remains of his meal back on the tray as he did so, intending to clear it away.

'All right, Jim,' he nodded. 'I'm coming.'

'Don't give me that 'humouring the mad man' tone of voice either,' Kirk said quickly, seeing the looking of tolerant sympathy in McCoy's eyes. 'And leave that tray. This is important.'

******

'Humouring the mad man' turned to outright disbelief as McCoy followed Kirk through the door into his quarters. The captain turned round with an almost fevered glint in his eye as soon as the door closed, and said swiftly, 'Bones, I just talked to Spock.'

'Now, Jim-boy,' McCoy said in his most accommodating tone, taking half a step backwards. 'I know it's hard. We're both grieving – '

'Goddammit, Bones,' Kirk snapped, then turned abruptly to his desk and flicked the computer into life. 'Computer, copy the communication I just received to my private computer, then erase from the main memory banks,' he said tersely. 'Maybe this'll help,' he said over his shoulder to McCoy as the computer chuntered at his command.

McCoy sat down slowly in the chair by Kirk's desk, wondering at what on earth the communication had been to cause this bizarre turn of events. He could not quite believe that Jim, in his grief, was raving or hallucinating. The communication at least had been real. The look of intensity on Kirk's face was the concentrated look of Jim at his operating finest, not of a madman driven by an obsession. But still, how could he have spoken to Spock? Spock was dead. The evidence was incontrovertible.

After a few moments the computer ceased its whirring, and Kirk said quickly, 'Computer, replay that communication now, volume level 6.'

And Spock's familiar, deep, resonant voice filled the room. McCoy sat listening in stunned silence until the voice snapped off and there was no sound left but the faint crackle of static.

'Blessed Vulcan biology,' McCoy muttered eventually in an awed tone, a grin spreading across his face. 'They're harder to kill than cockroaches.'

'He's *_not dead*_, Bones,' Kirk said simply, as if that was the most perfect truth in the world. 'Spock's not dead.'

'Have you run it through a verifier?' the doctor asked slowly, allowing some common sense to dampen his initial sense of joy.

'Of course I haven't, Bones – you know I haven't,' Kirk snapped. 'But he knew about that chess game. And _*I_* know. I know Spock.'

After a moment of silence he flicked the computer on again, finally caught by the same moment of doubt that had assailed McCoy, and asked it quickly, 'Computer, compare voice in that last message to the voice-pattern on file for Commander Spock. Query. Is the voice in the message that of Commander Spock?'

The computer whirred again, and after only a few seconds the tinny voice said, 'Verified. Message contains the voices of Commander Spock, deceased, and Captain James T. Kirk. Accuracy 99.9 percent.'

Kirk folded his arms across his chest, levelling a look of challenge at the doctor.

'All right, Jim,' McCoy said finally, letting a smile onto his face again. 'I don't think I've ever been happier to have that computer prove me wrong. I don't think I've ever been happier to hear the voice of that pointed-eared hobgoblin. But the question is – what now?'

'We wait for him to contact us again,' Kirk said succinctly. 'There's nothing else we can do. And meanwhile, we plan.'

'We plan,' McCoy echoed, wondering at how Jim could make sound so simple something which in reality would be enormously complicated. 'Do you think he got away from that house?'

'We have to assume he did,' Kirk nodded. He wouldn't let himself believe that Spock had come so close to rescue, and then allowed himself to be recaptured. 'Bones, I've got to get back to Malker.'

'Jim, Starfleet never asserted Spock's innocence,' McCoy reminded him slowly. 'They didn't lift a finger to help him, as long as the promise of dilithium held out. They think he's guilty of murder just as much as the Malkerians do. They won't allow you to just beam him up and reinstate him on the ship.'

'Then we have to prove his innocence,' Kirk said, without a moment's thought. 'Bones, I was assured, personally, by Commodore Statten of Starfleet Command that I would be entitled to a spell of compassionate leave, if I wanted to take it. I'm going to take him up on that. I'm going to Malker, and I'm not coming back until I can bring Spock back with me.'

'Compassionate leave?' McCoy repeated. 'Jim, since when have Command given out compassionate leave for losing a friend?'

'It's different, Bones,' Kirk said, shaking his head. 'Spock's – different…'

He looked up, and as he met McCoy's eyes he thought he saw a brief widening there, as if the doctor had had a sudden revelation. Whatever McCoy had realised, he hadn't realised it himself. He did not know entirely *_how_* or _*why_* Spock was different – he just knew he _*was_*. Suddenly he was overcome with an inexplicable self consciousness, and he dropped his gaze, saying;

'I called him, anyway, and told him I was next to useless, and he said straight away that I could have compassionate leave if I needed it. I'm taking it, and I'm going to Malker.'

'And you decided this when?' McCoy asked in astonishment. 'Jim, only half an hour ago you still thought Spock was dead! You should give yourself some time to – '

'Bones, we don't have time,' Kirk said insistently. 'You heard Spock. He's a fugitive. He's without protection, unwell, without means to support himself.'

'Unwell,' McCoy mused, the word awakening the doctor in him, overriding all other objections. 'It takes a lot to make Spock admit any kind of incapacity. He may need medical assistance.'

'Bones,' Kirk said in a warning tone. 'If you think you're coming, forget it. I can get away with compassionate leave. I can probably slip into the Malkerian atmosphere in a small ship, make a landing, and go unnoticed in their society for a while. Two of us will be too conspicuous – especially once I've located Spock.'

McCoy sighed. He wanted to level all sorts of arguments at the captain, but he knew that he was right. The priority at the moment was lessening the risk to Spock, and despite all of the benefit his medical training could bring to the situation, he knew fundamentally that another non-Malkerian presence would only jeopardise his position.

'All right, Jim,' he nodded eventually. 'I'll go to the sick bay – find out what it was they used to try to kill him, and what effects it might have had on him. That way, at least, if he does need help you can go in prepared.'

'Good, Bones,' Kirk nodded. 'And – keep this quiet, won't you? I don't want any hint that Spock's alive leaving this room. As long as everyone's certain he's dead he's relatively safe. I want it to stay that way.'

******

Kirk hung on an open channel for half an hour before Commodore Statten had time to spare to take his call. As he waited he sat shuffling an age-worn pack of cards between his hands, listlessly watching diamonds flicker into hearts, into clubs, spades, the flash of a grim-faced queen, the ornate beauty of the ace of spades. His eyes fell on the jack of clubs. The dark haired figure there bore a passing resemblance to Spock.

When he heard the commodore's voice he started, dropping the cards on the desk and turning quickly to the computer screen.

'Jim, sorry I kept you waiting,' Statten said. His smooth, cultured accent seemed to fit seamlessly with his ordered black hair and thin black moustache. He was a very precise man, but his face held the apologetic smile of a friend to a friend, not of a superior officer to his junior. 'I don't have a lot of time. What did you need?'

'You said a couple of days ago I could have compassionate leave if I needed it. I want to take you up on that,' Kirk said shortly, his fingers teasing absently at the cards again.

He felt bad at treating Statten's courteous friendship with such curtness, but the more affected by grief he could seem the better. He was, at least affected by the remains of grief, and by overwhelming concern for the friend he had thought dead.

'Jim, are you really that cut up?' the commodore asked in astonishment. 'I – have to admit I didn't expect you to take me up on the offer, but my secretary suggested you might be…' He shook his head, murmuring, 'Women's intuition, I suppose, but God knows what she was intuiting. You've lost officers before, surely?'

He leant closer to the computer screen, studying the image of Kirk's face on his own, taking in the dark hanging curves under his eyes and the tightness about his lips.

'Not Spock,' Kirk said, allowing the memory of how he had felt before Spock's message to well up into his chest. He dropped the cards again, looking up at Statten's face, his manner softening a little as he repeated, 'Not Spock. I'm no good as a captain at the moment, Harley. My Chief Medical Officer will confirm that. I need some time to straighten out my thoughts.'

Commodore Statten merely nodded solemnly, then asked, 'How long?'

'As long as possible.'

'Well…' The commodore's eyes flicked sideways, as if he was consulting a document, then he said, 'A month, Jim. I can give you a month, at most. Any longer and there'll have to be hearings to assess your fitness. Will that do?'

Kirk inhaled, and then nodded. 'It'll have to,' he said.

He would have preferred longer to try to prove Spock's innocence, but he would have to take what he was given. At worst he would just have to go AWOL, and accept the consequences.

'All right then,' Statten nodded. 'I'll put through the paperwork. But it can't be effective immediately, I'm afraid. Scott's the First Officer now, isn't he, and he can take command, but the ship's without a Science Officer. The crew will be stretched too thin with neither a captain nor a Science Officer, and the Chief Engineer monopolised on the bridge. You'll need to wait for the replacement to arrive before I can sanction you leaving the ship.'

'How long?' Kirk asked tightly, trying not to sound too desperate. He should have known when the replacement was arriving, but he had no idea. That, at least, added to the impression of his distracting grief – but he was cutting a fine line between appearing distressed enough to need compassionate leave, but capable enough to be allowed back after that leave.

'Commander Stevenson is scheduled to arrive in – ' The commodore consulted his computer again, ' – four weeks. You can leave the moment he steps on board, Jim. I know it's not ideal, but it'll have to do. You can hold out that long, can't you?'

Kirk clenched his fist in frustration, glad that the gesture was hidden from the commodore's eyes by his desk. Every minute that ticked by Spock was in danger.

'I guess I'll have to, Harley,' he nodded. 'I appreciate what you're doing for me, believe me.'

Statten's reply was a clipped nod – the warmth of friendship was evident in his eyes, but it wasn't in him to discuss Jim's grief verbally.

'All right, Jim,' he said. 'Now, I've got a meeting to attend. Four weeks, Jim,' he repeated. 'What is it they say? Hang on in there?'

'Hang on in there,' Kirk murmured, reaching out a hand to cut the communication. 'Thanks, Harley.'

_*Hang on in there_*, he mused as he cut the channel. He had an image of climbing a rock face, finding himself in difficulty, his fingertips slipping on the smooth stone as he waited for a friend to save him.

That would be Spock. Of course it would. Spock was always the one who appeared in the nick of time and hauled him out of the fire. And he did the same for him. And this time… He had failed Spock before the supposed execution. Spock was alive now only by chance, by dint of the executioner's incompetence or his own miraculous biology. He couldn't fail him now. But four weeks was a long time to hang on by your fingertips, on a strange planet and in fear of the law.

He shook his head. Perhaps he was stretching the metaphor too far. Spock was a competent, intelligent man. He would survive.

Maybe when he was back safe on the _Enterprise_ Jim would invite Spock to join him when he took his occasional stint on the ship's climbing wall. Maybe one day, when the hectic, duty-bound life of a starship captain was behind him, he'd take up climbing *_real*_ rocks, in real air, with real danger below him, and Spock could stand at the base of a sheer cliff and tell him how illogical the pastime was.

Kirk gave a soft laugh at that image.

'Something funny, Jim?' McCoy asked, and Kirk jumped.

'Good God, Bones! How long've you been there?' he asked quickly, looking up to see McCoy standing in the doorway.

'Oh, only about thirty seconds, Jim,' McCoy told him, coming further into the room. 'You were lost in another world. On Malker, perhaps?'

'Oh, I was just – ' Kirk began, but he didn't know how to explain the image that had captivated him. In his mind, when Spock had been standing near him as he climbed, the Vulcan had shed the mantle of a fellow officer, and even of a friend. He was something different to that – something far more permanent, less definable. Something that was just always _*there_*, and didn't have to be explained.

'Did you find anything, Bones?' he asked, shaking off the image before it began to preoccupy him again.

'*_Yes*_,' McCoy said emphatically, holding up a yellow computer disc as if it were a trophy. 'They used polyanthamenate, Jim,' he said, as if that in itself was self-explanatory. 'No wonder it didn't kill him!'

'Polyan – what?' Kirk asked, his forehead creasing. 'Bones, I'm not a doctor.'

'Polyanthamenate,' McCoy repeated. 'It attaches itself to the haemoglobin in the blood. Of course they threw some other nasty things in there too that – '

'*_Bones_*,' Kirk protested.

'Sorry, Jim,' McCoy said, shaking his head. 'Do you mind?' he asked, waving the yellow disc towards the computer on Kirk's desk.

Jim shook his head. McCoy slotted the disc he held into the computer, and brought up a rotating diagram of a chemical formula, which dissolved into an animation of what appeared to be a battle between cells in which a series of smaller red ones were being enveloped and smothered by larger, more vicious looking blue ones.

'This particular nasty impedes the absorption of oxygen – which kills you, obviously,' the doctor continued, waving a hand at the ongoing animation on the screen. 'Malkerian blood is iron based like ours, but the chemical wouldn't attach to Spock's haemocyanin. The crazy thing, Jim, is that with Spock's mixed-up blood there was enough haemoglobin in there to attract a sizeable amount of the polyanthamenate, making him ill enough for his body to shut itself down into a death-simulating coma. It's a classic Vulcan reaction to serious cases of poisoning or illness – autonomic reactions shut down everything they can, slowing the metabolism to almost nothing while the problem is dealt with.'

'Like the healing trance,' Kirk interjected.

McCoy shook his head. 'A bit like the healing trance, but it's completely unconscious. But if Spock's blood was pure Vulcan it wouldn't've done that at all. With the other chemicals in there it would have made him ill, sure. He would've been sick as the proverbial dog – but he would have been obviously alive, and they would have found something else to finish him off with.'

'Good God, Bones,' Kirk suddenly broke out, a more horrific option entering his mind. 'What if they'd buried him – or incinerated him?'

'They lay their dead out to the sun on Malker – at least, they do on the southern continent,' the doctor said. He looked at Kirk curiously. 'Don't you ever read the cultural reports Spock prepares, Jim? They may be dry as day old toast, but by God are they comprehensive.'

'Perhaps I skipped that bit, Bones,' Kirk said with a wry smile. 'I must say, interment practices don't exactly fascinate me.'

'Important, though,' McCoy muttered. 'Vital, in some cases, obviously.'

'Obviously,' Kirk nodded. 'What about the other chemicals in that cocktail, Bones?' he asked in concern. 'What would they have done to him?'

'It's impossible to be sure without an examination,' McCoy said carefully, 'but it's possible he may be suffering some heart and kidney damage. I'll send you with certain medical supplies and equipment. Spock will be able to use the scanner. I hate to admit it, but he makes a pretty good doctor when he needs to, and if there's anyone I'd trust with self-diagnosis it'd be him. There are drugs he can take to stabilise the problems, if he has them – but he'll need to come back to a proper hospital facility – preferably this one, here – for treatment within six months or so.'

'And if he doesn't?'

McCoy exhaled, shaking his head.

'It's hard to tell,' he said. 'It depends how badly he's affected. But it could lead to heart attack and, or, kidney failure – and without medical assistance both of those could be fatal.'

Kirk stared unseeing at the computer screen for a moment. Spock had come through the impossible barrier. He had defied death. He wouldn't allow Spock to die miserably as an outcast on an alien planet just because he couldn't get him to medical aid in time.

'I think I need a drink,' he murmured, glancing sideways at the small stock of bottles on the shelf near his desk. Normally he kept them behind cupboard doors, but recently he hadn't felt like bothering to put them away each time he had taken a glass.

'I'll pour you an Altarian scotch, if you like,' McCoy said, following his gaze.

Kirk nodded, smiling. Each time he had drunk in McCoy's company over the last four days the doctor had either shown his disapproval with a look or a choice few words. Obviously the doctor now considered him out of danger of incipient alcoholism – although he had chosen the least alcoholic of all the beverages on display to offer him.

'I'd like,' Kirk said as McCoy got to his feet. 'It's a fine choice. We've got plenty of work to do, and I want my mind to be clear. Statten couldn't give me the leave until four weeks from now – '

'Four weeks?' McCoy interjected in disbelief, turning briefly from the cupboard, two glasses in his hands. 'This is _*compassionate_* leave we're talking about.'

'I'm a starship captain, Bones,' Kirk said grimly. 'Nothing comes before the ship – not even its captain.'

'But you could've cracked up four times over by then! If you'll excuse the expression,' he said guiltily, looking at his captain, thinking how close he had been to hauling him into sick bay for a compulsory psychiatric review.

'I was close, Bones, wasn't I?' Kirk asked with a rueful smile. 'I don't know. I've experienced the death of crewmembers – of friends even – before, but this was – quite different.'

'Spock's a unique man,' McCoy agreed as he put a glass of glinting green liquid down before his friend. 'We may go at it like sworn enemies half the time, but I've never gone through anything as hard as standing there waiting for him to die...'

'Anyway,' Kirk said abruptly, shaking off the morbid tone the conversation was beginning to take on. 'Four weeks, Bones. I'd rather be able to go straight away, but since I can't we may as well use the time to find out as much about this case as possible – and the legal options should we prove Spock innocent.'

'_*When_*, Jim,' McCoy said firmly. '_*When_* we prove him innocent.'

******

It was two weeks before Kirk received another call from the Vulcan. By that time he had progressed greatly in organising himself for the trip to Malker, with help from many trusted members of the ship's crew. The knowledge of Spock's existence was still limited to only him and McCoy, but the knowledge that he was going to Malker to attempt to clear Spock's name was known by far more people.

It was awkward arranging things for both him and Spock without giving away the fact that Spock was alive, but being a captain had its privileges. It was quite possible to have junior officers do the groundwork of preparation, and then step in himself and see to it that he got exactly what was needed. He had organised native clothing, seeing to it that the measurements were sufficient to fit Spock as well as him. He had forged serviceable identity cards both for him and Spock. He had obtained Malkerian currency, hired a small ship to travel to the planet in, and arranged the rental of both an aircar and a small cottage that was near one of the larger cities, but isolated in its position. He had gathered together as much information as possible about the Malkerian legal system, and also obtained such devices and permits as would allow him to investigate the murder with as little hindrance as possible. All that remained now was to speak to Spock, and arrange a rendezvous in two weeks time.

All that remained…

When Kirk was engrossed in his preparations it was easy to forget Spock's plight – but every time he stopped he thought of him, alone and unwell, unsure of his own location and safety on a hostile world. The only way Spock could contact him would be to break into a house again, and access a communications device again, and speak to him again without getting caught or overheard.

He had to assume that Spock was still managing to survive, finding places to sleep and things to eat. He _*had_* to.

And then the intercom on his desk beeped softly, and as he pressed the button he heard Spock's low voice saying, 'Spock to Captain Kirk. Spock to Captain Kirk. Come in.'

'Spock!' Kirk said excitedly, seating himself behind his desk to bring himself nearer to the intercom. 'Are you all right? Are you still – '

'I am safe enough, and well enough,' Spock said shortly, keeping his voice almost at a whisper. 'Have you progressed in your attempt to return to Malker?'

'I've been granted compassionate leave, beginning in thirteen days,' Kirk said. It was almost impossible not to whisper in return to Spock's whisper – but perhaps that was best, if he was at risk of being overheard. 'I'll come to Malker alone, Spock. We can get the _Enterprise _within a light year of the planet, then I'll come in a small cruiser. I should be there in fifteen days time.'

'Can you extract me?' Spock asked, sounding slightly bewildered.

'Spock, the only way is to prove your innocence,' Kirk said quickly. 'I've hired a house just outside of Prautoria. We can stay there until you're cleared. Where are you now?'

'I am approximately fifteen miles westward from the place of my last communication,' Spock said. 'However, that is irrelevant. I cannot stay here. I have to keep moving, and keep out of sight. There are strict vagrancy laws here. I don't dare attempt to find employment without references. I don't even dare beg for food or money. I must keep moving to new places before I am seen.'

'Make towards the south,' Kirk said quickly. 'At your last position you were a hundred miles north of Prautoria. And don't worry – I'll find you,' he added with a security he barely felt. 'You know the frequency of my private transmitter? I'll take it with me.'

'I know it,' Spock said confidently, then swiftly he said, 'Out,' and the communication was broken.


	5. Chapter 4

4.

As Kirk sat on a park bench in the southern Malkerian city of Prautoria he could barely believe the reality of his situation. The weather was warm and tranquil, the hot sun made bearable by a fresh, intermittent breeze. Birds sang and flitted about the sky, small stands of trees rustled in the wind. Occasionally small, rodent-like mammals would approach him cautiously, their eyes glinting in the hope of food – and then chatter indignantly as he showed empty hands, and run back to the thick and tangling undergrowth that edged the park's paths and grassy areas.

If it wasn't for what he knew about Malker's strict, almost puritanical, ways of government and law he would have said this was the perfect place for shore leave. He could not imagine, however, four hundred and thirty odd crewmembers beaming down to the place and not breaching a drunkenness law, or a littering law, or some other of the hundreds of small but strictly enforced regulations that kept the planet so peaceful and tidy. Malker had seemed almost a paradise of orderliness on their first beam-down to the planet, but what he had learnt of the place's laws since reminded him more of a totalitarian state than a would-be Federation member.

It was Kirk's first time in this park, and he hoped he would not have to return too often. He had read enough literature and heard enough rumours about the place to know that these city parks, along with back alleys and industrial areas, were where Malker's more seamy side was swept under the rug – or, more literally here, hidden in the undergrowth. Malker had its fair share of crime, poverty and homelessness, and however it might deal with it, those individuals unlucky enough to be involved had to exist somewhere, out of sight of the planet's police force or tidy-minded, honest, upright citizens. The thick undergrowth in these places gave plenty of space for Malker's more undesirable segments of society to hide and continue to survive.

Of course, that was why he was waiting here. Spock had duly managed to make his way to Prautoria, and necessity had compelled him to take shelter somewhere in the vicinity of this park. His last, swiftly aborted communication to Kirk of only three days ago had named this as the place where they should meet. He had not managed to be specific about a location, but there was only one main path through the park, and he had suggested that Kirk find a seat somewhere along it, some time after the lunch-time rush had subsided, and Spock would find him.

Dear God, Jim hoped Spock would find him… Every strung-out gap between Spock's brief communications was an agony of uncertainty. Would Spock survive to contact him again? Would he manage to access a radio with getting caught? Would he even manage to find food without getting caught? Was he in the park now, or back in a Malkerian cell somewhere, or perhaps even…

Jim's head jerked up at soft, determined footsteps. He had to restrain himself from leaping to his feet and running to that lean, tall figure that was moving with purpose and poise along the path. Spock looked tired, thin, and worn down – but he had lost none of his grace.

Kirk rose to his feet, a smile spreading over his face.

'Spock,' he said simply – but there was a wealth of warmth and relief in his tone.

Spock moved towards him, aware of the sight that he made, dirty, unkempt, unshaven, with unbrushed hair and ill-fitting clothes that he had worn for weeks on end.

'I must apologise – for my appearance, Captain,' he said rather tentatively as he reached him.

'Spock, your appearance is the most wonderful thing I've seen in over a month,' Jim said with a broad smile.

He stepped forward, and without further hesitation he reached out and hugged the Vulcan tightly, despite the odorous clothing and his unwashed state. The very solidity of him – the feeling of bones and flesh beneath his hands – was like the manifestation of a miracle. Even the pungent scents of alien sweat and weeks worth of unwashed clothes were welcome signs of absolute reality.

'Captain,' Spock said a trifle awkwardly. 'I am hardly piquant. Surely – '

'Spock, you're perfect,' Kirk said firmly, releasing the Vulcan and patting him heartily on the arm. 'I wouldn't say you couldn't do with a bath,' he added. 'But I thought you were *_dead*_, Spock. We all did…'

Spock met his eyes, and nodded once.

'For a brief time, so I did I,' he said sombrely, one eyebrow raising under his hat.

'Come on. Let's get out of here,' Kirk said nervously, touching his arm again and hurrying him towards the edge of the park where the aircar sat. He didn't even want to think about those few moments when Spock had believed himself to be entering death, and he didn't want to tempt fate by lingering too long in the open. 'When did you last eat, Spock?'

Spock hesitated, then said, 'I have not managed to find food for the past four days. There's a lot of competition in this place, and I have not been fortunate in my timing…'

Kirk looked him up and down, taking in his tired, thin face again, and the very slight tremor in his hands.

'Come on,' he said. 'The house is only ten minutes away. I'm fixing you something to eat as soon as we get through the door. And running you a bath. Hell, you can eat *_in*_ the bath if you want.'

******

In the ten minute ride back to the house Kirk learnt that over the last month Spock had been sleeping in alleys behind buildings, squeezing into any space he could find to rest where he was certain he would not be seen, or sleeping in fields or woods as he travelled from town to town. He had been eating a melange of food from rubbish bins, or scraps he found dropped on the street, or whatever he could steal.

'I don't believe I have slept in a bed – excluding the prison bed, of course,' he interrupted himself sombrely, 'since I left the _Enterprise_.'

'Well, there's a freshly made up bed in the house, Spock,' Kirk assured him, not wanting to dwell on the weeks Spock had spent in prison believing he was waiting to die. 'Clean sheets, plumped pillows, a choice of duvet or blankets, or both. Where did you sleep last night, Spock?' he asked curiously. There was a definite lingering dampness and earthiness to the Vulcan's clothing.

Spock hesitated, then said, 'Did you notice the horticultural bias of the park where we met, Captain?'

'Horticultural bias?' Kirk echoed. 'Lots of bushes, I suppose, and low, scrubby – '

He trailed off as he realised what Spock was saying.

'You slept in that undergrowth?' he asked slowly. 'Spock, do you know what kind of people – '

'Captain, I know precisely what drug users and sexual aberrants and homeless itinerants frequent that park at night,' Spock said tiredly. 'It has been my home for the past week.'

'But don't they shoot – '

Again, he trailed off. He had been shocked to find that this area's solution to homelessness was to hunt out vagrants and simply eliminate them. The strained, exhausted look on Spock's face was becoming easier and easier to explain. He had been living like a hunted animal ever since his escape, even without the authorities looking for him directly.

'I wish McCoy was here,' Kirk said suddenly, his eyes firmly on the tree-filled vista ahead as he banked toward the small rented cottage.

As Spock looked at him questioningly he said, 'You've been eating left over scraps from bins, sleeping in places like that, in all sorts of weathers… I'd be happier if McCoy could give you a thorough physical.'

'The weather has been remarkably clement. And I am well enough, I assure you,' Spock told him firmly. 'I have had too little to eat, and too little sleep. That is all.'

'Doc said there might be some problems from the drug cocktail they used to – try to kill you,' Kirk said, those last words seeming to stick in his throat. 'You might have heart or kidney damage.'

Spock touched a hand briefly to the side of his chest, pressing his palm over his beating heart. Kirk had the momentary impulse to reach out to and put his hand over Spock's, just to reassure himself of what Spock was feeling, of that firm evidence of life. He stayed his hand, keeping it firmly on the aircar's controls.

'I have noticed some irregularity of heart rhythm on occasion, and a tendency to tiredness,' Spock said gravely. 'I ascribed the problem to lack of food and lack of proper rest. Did Dr McCoy prescribe a solution?'

'He sent me with the equipment and drugs for a temporary treatment,' Kirk nodded.

He banked the aircar again, bringing it in for a smooth landing on a bare concrete slab just outside a small, squat house. The building was surrounded by a small clearing, and then ringed by a sprawling wood, quite isolated from other buildings.

Spock descended from the car, surveying the building before him with interest. It was decidedly rustic, the first storey built of natural boulders and the second of roughly hewn boards rising from the stone wall. The windows were relatively small and wooden framed, and the roof was shingled with tiles of the same wood as the walls. He had seen plenty of houses like this on his trek through the Malkerian countryside, and even broken into a few. If it was true to type it would be laid out with living quarters upstairs and bedrooms on the ground floor, heated by real fuel fires and furnished with homely accoutrements. It would also be quite private. There was very little overt curiosity displayed by Malkerian nationals.

'Come on,' Kirk said, touching his arm. 'Let's go inside. What would you like first? Bath or food?'

Spock hesitated, and then looked down at himself and said with an edge of reluctance, 'I believe bath, Captain. And do you have clean clothes I can wear?'

'A complete supply,' Kirk nodded as he passed his key fob over the door and it clicked open.

He glanced at Spock as he stepped inside, interpreting the look he had seen on the Vulcan's face when he had chosen bath over food. Spock was like a cat. His habitual state was one of meticulous cleanliness, and on those occasions when he was not clean he always rectified the situation as soon as possible. Presumably he found his current state of dishevelment deeply unpleasant. But he was also hungry – starving hungry, or as close to starving as Kirk had ever seen his friend. It had taken a great degree of discipline to choose to wash before he satisfied his craving for food.

'Last door at the end, here,' Kirk said, nodding down the wooden floored hallway. 'I turned the heater on earlier, so it should be warm in there. Shall I leave you to it? There's towels and a robe already in there.'

'Thank you, Captain,' Spock nodded. 'I shall not be long.'

'Take as long as you like,' Kirk said magnanimously. 'There's no hurry. I'll leave some clothes outside the door for you. I'll be upstairs, in the kitchen.'

He watched Spock disappear through the bathroom door, then turned quickly to the stairs, intent on preparing something both filling and pleasant for the Vulcan to eat as soon as he was ready. It didn't take long to fix what he hoped would be a pleasant and relatively filling meal, but he was wary of overwhelming the Vulcan with too much food after a prolonged period of abstinence.

He hesitated for a few moments in the kitchen, wondering how long Spock would be. Then he remembered he had promised to find the Vulcan clean clothes. He put the plate down on the counter and went back downstairs to find a suitable outfit. He had settled on mainly dark, plain, inoffensive clothing, all in the Malkerian style, for Spock. There was a bit more variance in colour and style in his own clothes, but Spock was more reserved in his fashion sense. At least – he thought he was more reserved. It suddenly struck him that he had very rarely seen Spock out of uniform. Even on shore leave the Vulcan usually stubbornly refused to relinquish his uniform. It was true, though, that at those times Jim had seen him in civilian clothing he had always tended towards blacks, charcoal greys and dark browns.

He piled the clothes he had chosen together, and went to the bathroom door. He knocked softly on the wooden panel.

'Spock?' he called. 'Shall I leave these clothes here?'

There was the shortest moment of hesitation, and then Spock's voice came from inside.

'Come in, Jim. I am quite decent.'

Kirk turned the handle, and opened the door into a billow of warmth and steam. Evidently Spock had just finished his bath. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully using Kirk's razor to remove four weeks worth of beard growth. So far he had only shortened and neatened the dark hair in preparation for removing it completely.

Spock turned as Kirk entered, passing an appraising look over the small pile of clothes. He was naked but for a clean white towel fixed about his waist, and with his dark, wet hair tumbling over and disguising his slanted eyebrows and pointed ears, Spock looked rugged, almost piratical.

'You know, perhaps you should leave that beard,' Kirk pointed out, as much to fill the suddenly awkward silence as for any other reason. 'For a disguise, I mean.'

Spock raised an eyebrow, but there was a glint of humour in his eye. 'A trifle melodramatic, don't you think?'

'Well…' Kirk shrugged.

'I prefer to be clean shaven, Captain,' Spock said, turning back to the mirror. 'But I was intending to leave my hair as it is. Longer hair is not uncommon here, and it does disguise certain – '

'Certain devilish features?' Kirk finished with a grin.

'As you say,' Spock nodded, without expression, focussed intently on the removal of his beard with the softly humming electric razor.

Jim regarded him in the mirror, noticing that the thinness he had seen in Spock's face extended to the rest of his body. His collarbones seemed to jut from his body, and he could almost count the ribs beneath the olive-tinted skin.

'I'll put these here,' Kirk said quickly, laying the clothes down beside the basin. 'I hope they'll fit. I didn't take weight loss into account…'

'They seem quite adequate,' Spock nodded, sorting briefly through the pile to assess its contents.

'Well, then – I'll see you upstairs in a minute,' Kirk said, turning back to the door. It was uncomfortably hot in the bathroom, and the air in the corridor was a cool relief as he stepped outside.

******

When Spock appeared in the kitchen, clad in a charcoal grey shirt and trousers, with his black hair clean and brushed, he looked far more like the efficient science officer that Kirk knew from the _Enterprise_. The length of his hair, though, still gave him an oddly exotic cast, bringing out the dark intensity of his eyes far more than his usual trim cut.

'You didn't need that hat, you know,' Kirk said with a smile, noticing how Spock's pointed ears only just peaked through his hair. 'That hair covers a multitude of sins.'

'Vulcan hair does grow significantly faster than human,' Spock replied. His eyes tracked unobtrusively to the plate on the nearby counter, and he asked, 'Is that my food, Jim?'

'Oh – yes,' Kirk nodded quickly, transferring the plate and a selection of cutlery to the table.

He sat down opposite the Vulcan, his mind tracking unwillingly back to the last time he had sat across a table from Spock, when armed guards had been watching and Spock had been awaiting execution. Spock had looked a good deal healthier then, but the expression in his eyes now was far easier to meet.

He continued to watch the Vulcan as the amount of food on the plate steadily decreased. Spock was eating with something close to alacrity, rather than with the usual appearance of believing consumption to be an encumbrance that was necessary but mildly annoying. Kirk noted again the thinness of Spock's face, and then become aware of an unusual tinge to his skin that had not been evident before he had washed.

'You look pale, Spock,' he commented, although he wasn't surprised by the fact.

Spock looked up from his food.

'I am anaemic,' he said bluntly. 'The Malkerian diet is not rich in copper.'

'Oh!' Kirk exclaimed, hit by a sudden remembrance.

He stood quickly and went to a small black case on the nearby counter, carefully stocked by McCoy before he had left the ship. He opened it and rifled through the various containers of drugs in there, then selected one and tossed it to the Vulcan. Spock caught it reflexively, and examined the label.

'I forgot Bones sent iron tablets – copper tablets, I mean,' Kirk amended with a smile. 'One with every meal, he said. He figured you might be anaemic.'

Spock nodded, his eyes flitting over the label again, before he opened the pot and took out a small, round tablet. He swallowed it with a small sip of water, then turned his attention to his food again.

'It is striking how the good doctor makes his presence felt, despite being light years away,' he commented, looking up briefly.

'I've had my instructions,' Kirk said with a grin. 'First order of the day, Spock – after you've eaten – has to be a proper medical examination,' he said firmly, aware that Spock was even more averse to medical checks than he was to eating. 'Bones gave me a full dossier to pass on to you – what those drugs might have done to you, what symptoms to look for, and how to treat them. He thinks you're capable of treating yourself, to a point.'

'The doctor is probably right,' Spock nodded, pushing his now empty plate aside. 'However, I imagine we have more urgent matters to discuss than my health.'

'Your health – keeping you alive – is the reason I'm here,' Kirk said firmly.

'That is true, Captain,' Spock nodded. 'However – ' His face had shed some of its look of friendship, and had reverted to an expression beautifully familiar to Jim – the logical, unemotional mask of a Vulcan intent on a mission. 'There is one reason why my life was endangered – and that reason is murder.'

'A few hours won't make much difference – but they might do to your health,' Kirk said with deadly seriousness. 'Mr Spock, we are going to go through that dossier of McCoy's, point by point, and do what we can to stabilise any problems you have. _*Then_* we will discuss the facts of the murder. Is that clear?'

Spock met his eyes again. His gaze was lit by an appreciation for the familiar structure of command, rather than any kind of resentment at Kirk's natural assumption of that command.

'Very clear, Captain,' he said flatly, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. 'If I may have McCoy's instructions I will see to it now.'

******

The self-administered medical examination was relatively brief – but disturbing. Spock discovered that the muscles of his heart had lost ten percent of their normal strength since his last official examination, and that his kidneys were operating at only seventy percent of their normal efficiency. If he could have disguised those facts from Kirk he would have, but his captain insisted on being present, since he was the one that McCoy had instructed in how Spock should proceed.

The treatment, to prevent further degeneration, was no more than a matter of regular injections and scans, but for a complete return to normal he would have to have a doctor perform the delicate task of cellular regeneration, probably under anaesthetic in order to keep his heart rhythm controlled during the procedure. There was nothing that could be done on Malker without revealing himself to the authorities.

'We should move the sitting room downstairs,' Kirk mused as he followed Spock back up to the main room. 'Try to limit unnecessary stress – '

'Captain,' Spock said with a degree of asperity as he reached the top. 'I am no more unwell now than I was half an hour ago. It is quite likely that I am actually improved, since I have administered McCoy's potions. I am rather more prone to tiredness. Nothing more.'

'Hmm,' Kirk said doubtfully.

Spock arched an eyebrow.

'I did not think the transfer of katra was possible between living humans,' he murmured as he entered the living room.

'What was that, Spock?' Kirk asked curiously.

Spock turned.

'It seems you have been imbued with the living spirit of the _Enterprise_'s chief medical officer,' he said in a tone of fascination. 'I believed I was lodging with Captain James T. Kirk, not Captain James H. McCoy.'

'All right, point taken,' Kirk said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. 'I won't refer to your physical condition outside of examinations. Is that satisfactory?'

'It is highly doubtful that you will adhere to such a promise,' Spock said cynically. 'But, yes, it is satisfactory.'

'All right,' Kirk nodded, moving a small portable computer to the table, and taking a seat in front of it. 'I've got all the details of this case as I know them in the computer here. I guess there's some things I know that you don't know, and vice versa.'

'I would imagine that your knowledge of the case would be far more detailed than mine,' Spock said, sitting at the table and folding his hands in front of him. 'I was allowed very little access to information from the time of my arrest onwards.'

'The Malkerians are very cagey about allowing off-worlders to interfere in their legal processes,' Kirk said, shaking his head. 'We tried our damnedest to get more information before you were sentenced – and afterwards, too – but it was almost impossible. We were allowed to read the preliminary report about the crime. That was just about it. I wasn't even allowed to attend the trial.'

'I did not realise,' Spock said slowly. 'The accused stands behind a screen during trial. I could not see who was in attendance.'

Kirk met Spock's eyes briefly, caught with a sudden empathy for just how lonely Spock must have felt from the moment of his arrest. Lonely, frightened, helpless – they were all human, emotional terms, but he could not help but believe that Spock must have been assailed by at least some of those feelings.

'All right,' he said stoutly, pushing the computer aside. 'In the absence of other data, let's start from the start. Go through what happened from the moment you left me and Bones, Spock. Anything you remember, no matter how slight, might tell us something. The one thing I never heard was your own statement.'

A slight frown ruffled Spock's forehead, and he stared down intently at the table before him, his gaze roaming over the grain of the wood, and the contours of his interlocked fingers on top of it.

'Spock?' Kirk asked curiously.

'My memory troubles me,' Spock said carefully.

'You mean you don't remember?'

'No. It is not that, Captain… I know I did not commit the crime,' Spock said in a puzzled tone. 'But – '

'But?' Kirk prompted him gently. Spock had frozen, with an odd, haunted look on his face.

'But – I seem to remember certain details,' he said slowly, 'almost as if I had committed them with my own hands…'

'You _*know_* you didn't do it?' Kirk said.

The firmness he had intended in his voice had given way to the tone of a question. Spock did not make guesses, he did not work on intuition or hope. The most reassuring thing about having the Vulcan on his bridge for all these years was his ability to be definite. Now, however, he was faltering, vague – and what was amounting to being an extremely unreliable witness.

Spock met Kirk's eyes.

'I _*know_* I did not do it,' he nodded. 'I would have no reason to do it. But my memory is – recalcitrant, at best. I do not remember those things which would tend to support my innocence, while I do seem to remember details that would serve to convict me. I am not sure how useful a statement would be.'

Kirk sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

'Well, where do you suggest we start, Commander?' he asked with just a hint of irritation in his voice. 'We've got almost no information from the authorities, no information from the scene, nothing about the victim – and nothing from you either.'

'I'm tired, Jim,' Spock said honestly, looking up again. 'I have had no opportunity for meditation since my escape, and few chances for undisturbed reflection. With your permission, I'll go to my room, and attempt to marshal my memories. When I have arranged my thoughts into a coherent narrative, then I will be able to provide you with a statement.'

Kirk smiled apologetically.

'I'm sorry, Spock,' he said, seeing how truly tired the Vulcan was by his lack of rigidity in his chair. 'I guess this is getting to me more than I expected. You go rest. I promised Bones I'd fill him in on your condition, anyway. This'll give me the chance to send that data to him. Your room's the first on the right at the bottom of the stairs, by the way.'

'Thank you, Jim,' Spock nodded, getting to his feet again.

'Sleep well,' Kirk added as an afterthought, as the Vulcan made to leave the room.

Spock half turned, raising an eyebrow.

'I do not intend to sleep, Captain. But I will endeavour to meditate well.'


	6. Chapter 5

5.

Spock slept for a total of seventeen hours.

When he had not returned after two hours of meditation in his room Kirk had gone down to check on him, concerned that he was unwell. He found Spock lying on his back on his bed, fully clothed, with his hands draped on his chest as if they had slipped from one of his familiar meditation postures as he lost consciousness. He was well – the scanner Kirk held out over him confirmed that. He was simply exhausted, his body giving in to the first real chance it had had to rest in a month.

Kirk stood for a moment, regarding the Vulcan's face in its relaxed, defenceless state. His brown-black hair was tumbled back from his face, slightly waved from the wetness of his bath. His dark eyelashes rested in serene stillness, edging his closed eyes with black fringes. His mouth was very slightly open, his breath coming slowly and smoothly from between his lips at regular intervals. There was no sign in his exhausted, oblivious state of anything that troubled him. He could have been a child.

Jim briefly considered waking him. Spock would possibly be annoyed at falling asleep without meaning to, without making the proper preparations. Of course, it was probably at least a month before Spock had had to consider any kind of bedtime routine beyond finding somewhere safe and sheltered. He was overtaken by a sudden reluctance to pull the Vulcan from his peace on the first night he had been given the chance to sleep in safety. Spock obviously needed this rest, and he would not deny him it.

He left the room quietly, and went back upstairs to pore again over the scant details he held on his computer, hoping for something that would help lead him to a way of proving Spock's innocence. When he realised he was not going to find anything new in the facts he had read over multiple times he decided to organise instead, arranging pictures of the murder victim, in life and in death, and of the scene of the crime, together in a folder to present to Spock in the hope of helping his confused memories.

When finally it grew late he came back downstairs, to find the Vulcan still deep in sleep. He draped a light blanket over his sleeping form, went to find him a fresh suit of clothes for the morning, and laid out some necessaries on the chest of drawers. Perhaps superstitiously he had held back from doing this before he had gone to meet Spock. He couldn't quite stand the idea of having to come back alone, and see the useless preparations he had made.

He gave the room a finally look over, his eyes resting momentarily on the Vulcan's peaceful face, then went to his own room and sank down on his own bed. Perhaps sleep would help them both to some kind of solution.

******

Spock woke quite naturally as sunlight filtered through the half-closed shutters of his bedroom. The band of light had evidently crept up his body as the sun rose, but when it reached his eyes it finally disturbed him, and he rolled onto his side, half-unconsciously rubbing a hand across his face to push the annoyance away.

A momentary fear hit him as he felt the comfort of a mattress beneath his body, and felt the clean pillow against his cheek. He almost sat upright in shock, but then reason told him that it was not only his prison cell where he could sleep on a bed instead of curled on the ground, and he was safe, in the house the captain had brought him to the day before. He lay very still, calming the odd fluttering in his heart. He had felt that disturbed rhythm before, and had attributed it to lack of food. Now he knew the problem went deeper than mere nutrition. It would perhaps be advisable to focus his meditation on calming instinctive reactions of shock or fear.

He realised as he lay there that he was still fully clothed, and partially covered by a dark blanket that must have been put there by the captain. He had fallen asleep while meditating! That had not happened to him in years… But obviously he had needed the rest – and this bed, he was forced to admit, was enticingly comfortable, cradling every part of his body, and almost demanding sleep. There was obviously some element of luxury to this house. He could not imagine how much Kirk had spent on the rent of the place. The bed was a double – perhaps a king size. The linen felt exquisitely expensive against his skin, and there was no sign of wear anywhere in the room.

He wondered how long he had slept, but he had very little idea. Living for a month on the fringes of society, on a world with alien circadian rhythms, he had lost his precise time sense. A day of referencing himself against a timepiece and the problem would be solved. For now, it was enough to know that he had gone to sleep in the afternoon, and woken the next morning.

He sat up, seeing that the captain had obviously been into the room at some time and laid out a fresh pile of clothes – again, of a dark, modest colour that suited his taste. He shed his slept-in clothes and changed them for the fresh ones, then turned to the chest of drawers beside the bed, noticing a hairbrush and a number of other necessary items that had been put there.

He allowed the corners of his mouth to curl upwards very slightly. Jim had never struck him as the perfect host, but at the moment he was playing the role to perfection. He almost expected to find a chilled cup of *_satlan_* on his bedside table – but knowing the rituals of Vulcan hospitality was probably one step too far for his human friend.

He opened the door into the hall, listening carefully. The house seemed entirely quiet. It was possible that Jim was awake, but if he was there was no sign of him. He looked to the left and the right, trying to ascertain where Kirk's room lay. There was one door in the hallway that was open just a crack, and he moved silently towards it, certain that he could sense his captain's unguarded, sleeping mind beyond. There was no real need, with the certainty he felt, to open the door to check, but despite himself he pushed the door open a further few inches, and looked steadily through the gap.

Jim was lying there, spreadeagled on the bed, arms flung carelessly asunder, and one leg threatening to slip from the mattress to the floor. He was sleeping under nothing more than a thin white sheet, and it was crumpled down on a diagonal across his abdomen, barely covering more than his pelvis and his left leg. He was obviously entirely naked – the contours of the sheet over his pelvis made that very clear – and his bronze skin made a startling contrast with the clean white of the covering. His chest rose and fell in a timeless rhythm. He looked – enticingly warm.

Spock blinked. What had he meant by that? _*Enticingly warm…_* Had he been separate from human company for so long that he desired to be physically close to another person? Vulcans usually disdained physical contact. _*He_* usually disdained physical contact. A certain intellectual intercourse was agreeable, but he could not understand all of this touching that went on in platonic relationships between humans. It was completely unnecessary. Touching was reserved for intimate relationships. Few outworlders ever discovered quite how sensual a Vulcan could be.

He put the thought from his mind, and ventured upstairs.

The view from the kitchen window was one that was familiar to Spock by now – trees, backed by trees, and surrounded by still more trees. Malker had certainly not caused its forests to suffer as Earth had.

He moved to the refrigerator and inspected the contents. Jim had, quite sensibly, stocked it with all Malkerian food, resisting any urge to bring specifically Vulcan delicacies for his friend, but the choices were almost all vegetarian. Either Jim was avoiding bringing animal flesh into the house, or he was keeping any such supplies in another place. Again, the perfect host, Spock mused.

Spock selected himself a sensible, moderate breakfast, resisting the instinct built over four weeks to grab as much food as he could, and sat down at the table to eat.

******

'Sleep well, Spock?' Kirk asked casually when he finally joined the Vulcan in the kitchen.

Spock looked up from the table, nodding silently. Jim had obviously showered before coming up. His hair was slightly damp, and his skin seemed to glow with recent stimulation.

'My situation was more pleasant than recent nights,' Spock commented.

'I should hope so,' Kirk smiled. 'And – what about that meditation?' he asked more cautiously, grabbing himself a kind of Malkerian bread roll from a bread bin as he spoke. 'Did you manage to achieve what you wanted before you dropped off?'

'To some extent,' Spock nodded, recalling how meditation on the subject of the murder had gradually melted into distorted dreams of the murder, before fading away into more rewarding sleep.

'Spock, I need that statement,' Kirk said, almost apologetically. He poured out some juice into a glass, then took his breakfast to the table. 'It's the starting point for everything,' he said, seating himself opposite the Vulcan.

'Yes, I know, Jim,' Spock nodded. 'My thoughts are less confused this morning. I think I'm able to give a statement without contradicting myself. I assume,' he continued more hesitantly, 'that there is no hope of my repatriation within the Federation without proving my innocence?' he asked.

Kirk shook his head. 'They're still battling to get Malker to agree to entry. The last thing they want to do is upset it all by harbouring a convicted criminal. Damned bureaucrats,' he muttered.

'And if my statement should serve to condemn me?' Spock asked cautiously, not meeting his captain's eyes.

Kirk looked at him, startled. This was the second time that Spock had suggested he might not be entirely innocent. He couldn't think of anything further from the Vulcan's character than motiveless murder, but this time Spock had said it in the cold, rational morning light, rather than in his confused exhaustion of the night before.

'There – is one other option I've thought of,' Kirk said carefully. 'Come back to the ship, we'll have McCoy perform some – minor surgery – alter your appearance. New name, new history – you could be a whole new person.'

Spock gave Kirk a look that was half smiling, half pitying. 'Jim, I am half-human,' he said softly. 'I am, as far as I am aware, the _*only_* half-human half-Vulcan hybrid in existence. You may change my face and my name, but my biology would always betray me.'

Jim regarded the Vulcan's face, his steady brown eyes, the lines of his lips. He remembered the conversation he had held with him just before beaming down to Malker, before all this had happened. His fear of his own biology… Yes, that was about the only thing that ever could betray Spock. His mind was rigidly under control, but his body was subject to the dictate of a couple of hormones, and the rhythms of the planet of his birth.

But was his mind so rigidly under his control? Spock thought he had committed a murder. He _*thought_* he had. Spock's mind was a malleable, ever-changing organ, not a tape recorder – and even recordings could be tampered with. Jim had learnt that during the Finney affair, when, embittered to the point of insanity, one of his oldest friends had framed Jim for causing his own death. That had meant tampering with the computer. Was it possible to tamper with a mind?

'Jim,' Spock said, cutting through his thoughts. His eyes were still fixed steadily on Kirk's face. 'Would you like me to begin?'

'Oh – er – let me get the computer,' Kirk said quickly. 'I want to record this.'

'Of course,' Spock nodded. For a man who was in doubts over whether or not he had committed murder, he was remarkably calm.

Kirk turned to the worksurface, fetched the computer, spent an unnecessarily long amount of time setting it up.

'All right,' he said finally. 'I'm ready, Spock.'

'Commander Spock,' Spock began. 'Stardate – '

He looked enquiringly at Kirk.

'Oh – er, 5478.2,' he said quickly.

'5478.2,' Spock repeated. 'Statement of the events that led up to my arrest on the charge of murder. I beamed down to Malker with Captain James T. Kirk and Dr Leonard McCoy – '

Kirk waved his hand impatiently. 'Spock, we know all of that. We know it all up to the point that you left me and Bones to go to that museum. Unless there's anything relevant before that point, can you just start there? This isn't a formal statement, you know.'

Spock's eyebrow rose at Kirk's impatience. 'I cannot think of anything relevant up to that point,' he said. He exhaled. 'Very well. As you know, Captain, I left you and the doctor at approximately 14:20, with the intention of visiting the Malker Museum of Science and Technology. Following the directions given to me previously by a Malkerian aide, I took a side alley – Amelion Lane, I believe the sign read – which would lead me towards the area of the city I was attempting to reach. The alley was quite deserted, as far as I am aware. There were back entrances to properties, and rubbish containers. I say the alley was deserted, but I did sense – a presence. I attributed it to my awareness of the minds of those within the buildings, and thought little of it.'

'You think it was something more than that, now?' Kirk asked curiously.

Spock shook his head. 'I do not know. I cannot be certain.' He drew in breath, then continued, 'I proceeded down the alley, crossed over a wider, busier street – I'm not certain of the name – and directly into another similar alley – Halver Lane. The aide had told me to continue down these alleys until they crossed Broad Street, where the museum was situated.'

'Who was this aide, Spock?' Kirk asked, intrigued by the fact that Spock had been following a prescribed route.

'His name was Achevian Sendar,' Spock said immediately. 'Aide to the minister for culture, I believe.'

'And he was definite about the route you should take?'

'He suggested it,' Spock said with equanimity. 'He said it was the shortest and swiftest route to the place. I saw no logical reason to choose another route in the face of that advice.'

'Yes,' Kirk murmured. 'A Vulcan wouldn't…'

'Captain?' Spock asked curiously.

Kirk shrugged. 'A human, Spock, might decide to take the longer route for the sake of the scenery, or become distracted by another attraction. You, a Vulcan, wanted to go to the museum, and you took the direct, logical route. No detours. No delays. You took the route that was suggested to you, _*because_* it was logical.'

Spock nodded. 'This is true,' he said. His face became grave again. 'It was in the second alley that the murder took place, about halfway down. Like the first, the street was lined with rubbish containers, and doors exited from various establishments. I – heard a noise. A quiet sound, of a woman groaning. I could not see her. She was between two bins. I came forward, and saw her sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall. From my subsequent experience of this planet I would guess that she was homeless. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared dazed, but unhurt. I stepped forward and asked if she needed assistance. Her eyes opened instantly. She appeared startled by my presence. She began to respond, shaking her head. She lifted her hand, as if to push me away. And then – '

'And then?' Kirk prompted.

The Vulcan's face had taken on a distant expression, his eyes unfocussed.

'I felt – ' The Vulcan looked puzzled, his gaze seeming to turn inwards. 'I felt – a great rage at the woman – for some very definite reason…'

'What reason, Spock?' Kirk asked softly.

'I – think – ' He shook his head, then said with a hard, odd tone to his voice, 'Vagrants. Useless, helpless vagrants. Why should they have the right to…' His eyes seemed to clear again, and he said in his previous, abstracted tone, 'I found myself hitting her. I – picked up a piece of wood, or metal pipe… I cannot remember. And I struck her, again and again, until she ceased to move. I – When she died I seemed to see her anew. I – began to attempt to revive her. As I did I heard running footsteps. It was a woman. She – shouted something incoherent. I asked her if she had alerted the authorities to what had happened. She – said it would be better to call an ambulance, and she began to reach into her bag. I told her there was no need – that the woman was dead, and – she pulled an energy weapon from her bag and fired it, and I – fell unconscious…'

His eyes seemed to snap into focus, and he looked up at Kirk, puzzlement on his face.

'I – fell unconscious. I woke up in custody. I was told I had committed a murder. At first I could not even remember the act. Perhaps some – synaptic disruption from the energy weapon,' he suggested, sounding half-questioning. 'But gradually memories of it returned, and all of those memories showed me committing the crime. I could see no reason to argue that fact.'

'So, logically, you went along with what your memory told you,' Kirk nodded.

'It was _*my_* memory,' Spock said. 'I did not think I had reason to argue…'

'Spock – didn't reason tell you that it was highly improbable that you would commit a spontaneous, motiveless murder?' Kirk asked, trying to keep his incredulity muted from his voice.

'As time went by, events did seem to grow less probable in my mind,' Spock nodded. 'It was – a little like waking from a dream. Have you ever experienced a dream, Captain, which on waking seems no less clear and logical than real life, but the further you progress into wakefulness the less coherent and logical the dream seems, until your mind ceases to recognise it as a valid event, and eventually erases it?'

Jim nodded slowly. Most of his dreams seemed to strike him in that way.

'Spock, are you saying – that what happened in that alley was a dream?' he asked.

'Unfortunately it was nothing of the kind,' he said grimly. 'It was a very real murder. I am saying that what happened in that alley – or, my memory of what happened in that alley – followed a course *_very like*_ that of a dream. At first it seemed so inarguably real that I had absolutely no reason to question it. But the less probable it became the more difficult it became to remember, until I reached a point where I had very little memory at all of the murder, and so had just as little hope of defending myself as I had when I firmly believed that I had committed the act. My meditation last night was the first time since my conviction that I had properly recalled events to my mind.'

'And you didn't go through it in prison?' Kirk asked him incredulously. 'Surely once you realised how illogical all this was you would have examined your memories?'

Spock shook his head. 'I – can only say that the thought did not occur to me. I never considered that I had not done it, or that it was uncharacteristic for me to have done it. It was – almost as if someone, or something, was influencing my thought processes…'

'Spock, you might just have hit the nail on the head there,' Kirk said with more energy, hitting his palm down onto the table. 'Something was influencing your thought processes. Something made you _*believe_* you had committed that murder.'

Spock shook his head slowly. 'But the evidence that was found…'

'Evidence found by Malkerian officials, that Starfleet never got a look in on,' Kirk persisted. 'Spock, are you telling me that you believe that that whole process was above board?'

Spock blinked, assailed by a sudden condensed flash of his first few hours after waking up from being shot down in the alley, of being stripped and searched and pushed about and barraged with questions that felt like an assault on his dazed mind. He remembered his fingernails being scraped for evidence, swabs taken of the skin of his face and hands, his hair being combed out meticulously under a scanner. How could he determine whether or not any evidence supposed to be found in that search was true? He could barely have spoken his own name if asked.

'Spock,' Kirk said more softly.

Spock started. Jim's hand was on his, jogging it with increasing force, trying to bring him back to the present. His fingers were cool on Spock's own warm hand, and hints of his mental processes sparked through the contact.

'Spock, I don't believe you committed that murder,' Kirk said firmly, suddenly removing his fingers as if he had realised the inappropriateness of touching a Vulcan's hand. 'I just can't believe it. _*Something_* was done to you, to your mind, your memories, to make you believe you did it – to make you accept it without question. But you didn't do it, and I'm going to prove that.'

Spock's eyes met Jim's, and there was a startling look of vulnerability in them as he said, 'How?'

Kirk hesitated. 'I don't know,' he said finally. 'But I will. I _*will_*, Spock. I promise you that.' He looked about himself, as if searching for some hint in that alien kitchen as to how to proceed. His eyes fell on the medical case that was still on the counter, and he smiled. 'First, Spock, I will take a tricorder to that alleyway, and scan for any evidence I can find of who might have been there that day.'

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'You mean, besides myself, the murdered woman, and untold numbers of police officers and unnamed civilians who attended the scene of the crime? After three months have passed?'

Kirk sighed. 'Well. Maybe you're right there. Perhaps we're approaching this from the wrong angle. Taking that you didn't do it as a given, we need to work out who did do it, and why… What resulted from that murder, Spock?'

'Other than the death of a woman, and the supposed death of myself?' Spock asked.

Kirk waved that away. 'It's got to be something important…'

Spock's eyebrow shot upward.

'You know what I mean,' Kirk said impatiently. 'Something that has greater consequences for someone, or some people, on Malker than the death of a Starfleet officer.'

'I have very little idea of what has been happening in the wider world since my arrest,' Spock reminded him. 'We beamed down in order to give the Malkerians a more detailed introduction to the Federation, and to persuade them of the benefits of becoming members. Did my arrest have an effect on that aim?'

Kirk snorted. 'Well, Bones and I were forcibly ejected from the planet. The discussions collapsed. Starfleet have been continuing to hold contact with the Malkerian government, but no one's been back here in person as yet.'

Spock nodded, looking thoughtful. 'Are there positive signs of future acceptance of Federation membership?'

'They – haven't outright rejected the idea. They seem willing to keep talking.'

'Captain, from what little I know of this planet, I would say that the government is highly influenced by the views of the populace,' Spock pointed out. 'They are concerned about crime, so sentences become draconian. They disapprove of the homeless, so the homeless are 'dealt with'. Have you any idea of the views of the populace on this matter? The reactions of popular culture, the news, gossip on the street?'

'I'd've thought you'd be in a better position to tell _*me_* about that,' Kirk shrugged. 'I haven't been monitoring Malkerian news channels.'

'Perhaps you should have,' Spock said pointedly. 'Jim, I have been attempting to keep myself as inconspicuous as possible for the past month. I have been keeping largely to the countryside. I have not had the opportunity to gauge public reaction to my supposed crime. I had no opportunity at all whilst I was incarcerated.'

'No, of course,' Kirk murmured. 'I'm sorry… All right, that's something we can research later. What about this woman, Spock? The one that came across you in the alley, and shot you? Have you any idea who she was?'

Spock shook his head. 'I did not see her approach me, and I do not know anything about her. I didn't see her at the trial. The accused is prevented from seeing the rest of the courtroom by means of a one-way screen.'

'And where did she come from, Spock?' Kirk asked curiously. He had called up a map of the city on his computer, and was studying the alley where the murder took place. 'Those alleys are pretty long. If she'd come from the main street you would have heard her earlier, wouldn't you?'

Spock tilted his head to one side, considering. 'Perhaps,' he nodded. 'I was – distracted, at that point. But – ' His eyes narrowed as he scanned through his memories. 'I – perhaps – heard a door opening and closing. I certainly did not hear her approach until she was only a few metres away.'

'And she shot you with very little pretext, and you woke up having lost a chunk of your memory,' Kirk said sceptically.

'I would not say there was very little pretext,' Spock argued. 'She did, after all, think that I had murdered a woman.'

'But she waited to talk to you about the police and paramedics first?' Kirk asked, incredulity tinting his voice. 'Come on, Spock. She waited until she knew that the woman was dead, and then she shot you. She specifically elicited that fact by saying she should call an ambulance, and as soon as she knew the answer, she shot you, rendered you unconscious, and when you woke up you had no thought of arguing the fact that you'd been arrested for murder.'

'Jim, what is your human expression?' Spock asked softly. 'Clutching at straws? I don't entirely understand the reference, but I think that the meaning is relevant here.'

Kirk shook his head resolutely. 'I don't think so, Spock. We're starting from the point that we _*know_* you're innocent – and I know that, Spock,' he said as the Vulcan opened his mouth. 'If you drop a cannonball from a specific height in earth gravity, you know exactly when it will hit the ground. You don't need to look. You just know. And if I send you into a situation and a motiveless murder occurs, I *_know*_ you didn't do it. It's as simple as that.'

'Jim, I am not a scientific constant,' Spock said with a hint of amusement. 'I am a living being. Fallible. Inconsistent.'

'No, Spock,' Kirk insisted. 'No. I know you. So, I say again. We're starting from the point that we know you're innocent. In that case we _*know_* someone else did it. We know that this woman arrived on the scene before anyone else. We're pretty certain that she didn't just come from the street at either end of the alley. We know that she waited until she was sure that the woman was dead before she rendered you unconscious.'

'Precisely,' Spock nodded. 'We know that she appeared _*after_* the woman had been killed.'

'Do we?' Kirk asked. 'Are you sure of that, Spock? You've admitted your memory is flaky at best. You remember committing a murder that you couldn't have committed. How can you be so sure of where and when the woman came from?'

Spock sighed. 'You are right, Jim,' he nodded. 'I cannot be sure. But how are we to find out anything about this woman?'

Kirk gave a grim smile. 'There are ways and means,' he said. 'We'll find out. And what about this senator who sent you down that alley?' he asked. 'Achivan Senderm was it?'

'Achevian Sendar,' Spock corrected, pronouncing the word with practised Malkerian intonations. 'He was a minister's aide.'

'Come to think of it,' Kirk continued, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'There was something Bones said about the place we were heading to… Something about it being very suited to our needs…'

'Dr McCoy said, verbatim, *_Jim, apparently there's a certain bar further on down this street that's got a reputation as one of the city's best,_*' Spock said smoothly. 'He also said, _*I hear the women there are…*_'

'That, you can remember perfectly,' Kirk complained under his breath. He looked up again, asking, 'He said the women there are what, Spock?'

Spock shook his head. 'The description of the women is not the point. He said, _*I _hear_ the women there are_*, and _*_apparently_ there's a certain bar_*. Jim, I was told of a large museum filled with fascinating examples of this planet's scientific and technological development – irresistible, to such as myself. The good doctor was told of a bar famed for its ambience and also the quality of women that frequent the place – irresistible, I would say, to both you and the doctor. It was unlikely that you were going to turn the doctor's suggestion down to follow me to the museum. With a very simple psychological understanding of the three of us, we were sent in separate directions, and I was left alone, with no witnesses to the crime.'

'But why you, Spock?' Kirk mused. 'What is it about you that makes you different?'

Spock eyebrow rose. 'I perhaps seem more different from the Malkerian population than would a human. It is easier to stigmatise one who is obviously an alien. My emotional control may make me seem unrepentant before a jury. My greater strength would make such a murder more plausible…'

'Mmm,' Kirk nodded, rubbing his finger and thumb over his lip, considering Spock's words. 'Yes, it would be easier to make you a scapegoat, I guess. We need to know who it was that told Bones about the bar. Spock, do you realise this means that if you were set up, it was most likely by someone directly involved with the Malkerian government?

Spock nodded gravely. 'It does seem very likely. Discovering their objective may help us to discover those involved.'

'Well,' Kirk said decisively, rising from his seat. 'I'm going to go and find out what the 'man on the street' thinks about it all. Just grab some idle gossip, buy a few news-sheets, see how your conviction affected public opinion of the Federation.'

'And I?' Spock asked curiously.

Kirk shook his head. 'You shouldn't be going out more than necessary. I've brought a private transmitter, Spock. Contact Bones on the _Enterprise_ through frequency C_._ I'm sure he'll be glad to hear your dulcet tones. Get him to find out exactly what's happening between the Federation and Malker.'

Spock nodded silently, thinking through precisely what he would need the doctor to find out. Undoubtedly he would have to get through a barrage of medical questions before he even began on the subject of diplomatic relations between the Federation and Malker. Nevertheless, he did find himself almost as eager to hear the doctor's voice as Jim thought McCoy would be to hear his – whether because of a desire to speak to McCoy or just because of an illogical sense of nostalgia for the home he thought he would never see again, he wasn't sure.


	7. Chapter 6

6.

The scene repeated itself for a week. Kirk took the aircar and visited various locations in his attempts to pin down a precise reason for a Starfleet officer to be framed for a Malkerian murder, and Spock stayed at the house, using the computer, speaking to McCoy, and doing all the research that he could from his restricted location.

They had discovered various random pieces of information so far. The woman who had been murdered had never been officially identified, and had no concerned friends or relatives who had come forward after the high-profile incident. She seemed to have been homeless in the most complete way, with no one to miss her or grieve for her, no apparent past, and now no future either. As an unattached woman with no home in the capital of Malker it was unlikely that she would have been allowed to survive for long anyway. Kirk had struck her off the list as no more than a useful pawn in the conspiracy that he believed he was uncovering.

The woman who had accosted Spock in the alley held far more promise as a catalyst for further information. She appeared at first to be no more than a chance passer-by, but Kirk and Spock's investigations combined, with help from McCoy, had put a name to her, and discovered an address somewhere out on the fringes of the city. On further investigation, making good use of his penchant for charming attractive ladies and listening attentively to everything they said, Kirk managed to elicit a slough of disjointed facts about her. She was lovely, but had a quick temper. She was deceitful. She always dressed so well. She was the daughter of a Malkerian minister. No, she was the wife of a Malkerian minister. She had been the secretary to a Malkerian minister before taking the job in the business that backed on to the alley where the murder occurred. She had nothing at all to do with Malkerian politics – she just boasted of it, but then she was two-faced – what did you expect? She had been a very good worker, no complaints, but she had moved on very quickly from that job after the murder, and had only been seen in glimpses since.

Spock was bewildered by this mixture of emotionally charged snippets of information, but to Kirk, at least, they seemed to make some sense. The only pertinent point to Spock was that the woman was, most likely, involved with the Malkerian government in some way. Kirk, however, had managed to build up a rough profile of her in his head from what other women said of her, and assured him that it would all be useful in the end.

For his part, Spock had spent interminable hours at the computer seeking any information that might help in their investigation, now matter how obscure. The Malkerian government, and its many spidering arms of political influence, were all intimately familiar to Spock by now. He had the names and faces of every individual Malkerian politician stored in the vast recesses of his brain, and had a good knowledge of the history of Malkerian politics for the past one hundred years, including all known political scandals and intrigues. He had not yet discovered how the woman in the alley might be connected to them, but between his and Kirk's investigations it could only be a matter of time.

Through McCoy, Spock discovered that talks were ongoing for Malkerian inclusion in the Federation. However, Malkerian demands for freedom from certain Federation restrictions and exemption from various duties and taxes grew stronger every time that the murder case happened to be mentioned. It seemed clear that if the murder had been a deliberate attempt to frame a Starfleet officer then the aim was to use the event as political fodder to manipulate the best possible deal for Malker out of Federation membership. It was certainly working so far. It was the fact that the supposed murderer had been given a death sentence with such rapid certainty, and so swiftly executed, that galvanised opinion that he _*must_* have been guilty, and that Federation membership opened up the planet to obvious threats that had to be countered by greater benefits.

After five days of haunting the area near the murder site Kirk had developed a friendly relationship with one particular woman from the building where Spock's assailant had worked. Day by day he was drawing out more about her with a flattering attention to the woman and a pretended interest in idle gossip. He was out again today, having promised to dine with the woman that evening, and he had no expectation of being back before dusk.

Spock found himself illogically irritated that day by the captain's absence. He had held a short conversation with McCoy that morning via the comm device, and carried out some research on the computer, but by mid-morning he felt he had exhausted all he could do without further information. He understood completely the reasoning behind Kirk's all-day absence, but as he moved about the house completing various domestic chores and looking out of the windows at the ever-falling rain he found a sense of boredom and redundancy creeping over him. It was not in his nature to play such a passive role in affairs such as this. It was true that Kirk was the more physical one of the two of them, and was far better at pretence and deception, but he still wanted desperately to be out of this place and actually _*doing_* something more than abstract research in his attempt to clear his name.

He went to the sitting room window again and gazed up at the sky. He knew that it was unlikely that Jim would be back so soon, and he knew that it was almost a given that Kirk would not call him on the comm unit. They had both agreed that such contact should be kept as restricted as possible. But still, his eyes scanned the dull, cloud-swathed sky for a sign of the aircar in the distance, and again, found no such sign.

He let his gaze fall back to the forest – and then he saw a figure of a woman – really not much more than a girl – standing at the side of the clearing, staring up at the window with the same impassive gaze that he had been using to look down. She was wearing a bright raincoat, her head almost hidden in a deep hood, but he could see the pale skin of her face, and that her features were what would be termed attractive. As their eyes met her face brightened as if she had seen an old friend, and she smiled, and waved, with no appearance of awkwardness at having been caught watching the house. Spock raised his hand automatically in response to her wave, and her smiled broadened. Then as the wind squalled and the rain intensified, she shook herself, and ran back into the trees.

Spock stood for a moment staring at the spot where she had stood. If he had been human he might have doubted that she had ever really been there. But he was not human, and his Vulcan eyesight was quite strong enough that he could see the ground clearly, even through the falling rain. Jim almost always walked no further than the aircar, and Spock himself had barely left the house in the past week – but he could see footprints in the mud, hovering about the edge of the treeline, of a size that seemed appropriate for the girl's feet. She had obviously been there more often than just today.

Spock's eyebrow rose. There was nothing suspicious about the girl's presence – of that he was certain. Using a good deal of what his mother would call 'intuition', but what he called subconscious deduction, the girl did not seem to be a suspicious type. She looked no more than a young woman from one of the local cottages here. If she had been human, he would have guessed that she was no older than seventeen. She was probably curious about the two strangers who had rented the holiday cottage. Spock had spent an unusually large amount of time standing at the window and looking out over the forest, using the soft, natural view to calm his frustration at the restrictions of his present existence. It was very likely that the girl had seen him there before, and today was the first day that he had seen her, too.

With the ease of one who had spent years learning to control his own thoughts, he put her out of his mind. It was easy enough to dismiss external events like this one. His internal musings were not quite as easy, however.

His eyes relentlessly tracked the raindrops that slithered down the windowpane. The ground outside, that had been hardened to a sheet of packed earth by weeks of sunshine, was now turned to an ever-widening slick of mud by four days of rain. Coming from a desert climate, Spock had never been overly fond of the kind of dull, drizzling rain that seemed to occur in such temperate climates as these. A swift, ferocious rainstorm of the sort that blasted dry sand from the ground and caused the mountains to run with torrents was one thing, but this constant, persistent dripping of moisture irritated his lungs, and, although he would barely admit it, irritated his mind too.

Spock sighed, and turned from the window again. What would his mother have called this mood? _*Moping_*. That was it. There were plenty of times during his childhood when she had found him gazing out of a window or sitting in solitude in his room, and she had smiled at him, and told him to stop moping. He had always said to her, 'Mother, Vulcans do not mope.' Today, however, he was forced to acknowledge that if _*moping_* constituted a feeling of aimlessness, combined with a lack of enthusiasm for any kind of activity, then perhaps they did.

_*Perhaps I should tell my mother that she was right,_* he thought. And then he realised, *_My mother believes me to be dead._*

That single thought shocked him into a more energetic mood. His parents would have no doubt that he had been executed for the crime of murder. He had been able to leave no words of farewell for them, or give them the comfort of his Katra to place in a katric ark for eternity. Did they believe in his innocence, or his guilt? His mother would be grieving…

He turned to the comm unit on the table, and entered McCoy's code. Contacting the ship twice in one day was risky at best, but, oddly, the level of risk itself made him feel less listless. As the connection began to go through he activated a small timer beside the comm unit. He had calculated that any communication of less than five minutes would be virtually untraceable by outside agencies, and he rigorously restricted all of his conversations with McCoy to that length.

'McCoy here,' came the voice from the other end after only a few moments of waiting. 'Is everything all right there?'

Spock took in a deep breath. He knew that McCoy would never speak his name, and his voice was disguised by a filter so that even if someone did overhear the conversation then they would not instantly recognise his voice. Even so, such communication was always a danger.

'Everything is quite fine,' he said smoothly. 'But – I have considered that there are those who might be anxious for my welfare. The – more aged among us.'

'The more aged?' McCoy echoed blankly.

'A certain lady,' Spock said patiently, 'and a certain gentleman of an even more venerable age.'

McCoy said suddenly, 'Oh!' Then, 'Yes, it doesn't do to cause extra stress to cardiac patients. You're right.'

'Precisely,' Spock nodded. It was obvious that the doctor had understood his meaning.

'But – do you think I should tell them?' McCoy asked anxiously. 'Really?'

Spock hesitated, then said, 'Certain people, in their chosen professions, understand the importance of discretion. Often the fate of an entire planet relies on such discretion. But I believe – an indirect communication may be best. If you could impress upon both parties the imperative for the greatest of secrecy, and then tell the lady that someone of her acquaintance has very recently realised that he does, indeed, mope.'

'I – beg your pardon, S-?'

McCoy cut himself off with a curse as he almost spoke Spock's name.

Spock took in a quick breath. It had amazed him that so far McCoy had never come closer than this to revealing his name.

'She will understand the meaning of the message,' Spock assured him. 'And if she does not, then I'm sure that your ingenuity will provide some other means of passing it on.'

'I'm – sure,' McCoy said slowly. 'Yes, I think if I take a leaf out of your book I could probably relate the entire story of Genesis to her while making her believe that I was actually ordering a coffee and a chicken sandwich. Jesus…'

'I have great faith in your ability,' Spock said smoothly. He glanced at the timer beside the comm unit, and said crisply, 'Out.'

He shut the communication off, and turned to the open fireplace on the other side of the room. If a successful cure could provide a retrospect diagnosis, then his mother had been right all these years. Her proposed cure for moping was to _*get up and do something_*. Spock had got up and done something, and he no longer felt the listless lack of motivation. He would light the fire, drive the cold and damp out of the house, and then see to the ever-growing pile of laundry that had been building up for the past week.

******

The fire had been lit for some hours before Kirk returned, and the heavy, damp atmosphere in the house had been driven away by the heat and lively crackle of flames. It was dark outside when his captain returned, and when he came in through the door wiping water from his hair and disgustedly shaking it off the tips of his fingers Spock almost smiled.

'The fire is going well,' Spock said quietly, nodding towards the blazing conflagration at the side of the room.

'Ah, just what I need, Spock,' Kirk smiled, shrugging his coat off and hanging it on the back of the door.

He sat down in an armchair and drew it closer to the fire, holding out his hands to the flames. Spock's eyebrow lifted as steam began to rise from the ends of his sleeves. He would have been in his room changing by now – but humans never seemed as bothered by being wet as he did.

'I will put the _*laftin_* on to boil,' Spock said, going into the kitchen.

He carefully measured two scoops of the dried berries into the pot, filled it with water, and set it on the heat. The old-fashioned methodologies of this planet were time consuming compared with life in most Federation cultures, but he had to admit that the rituals and routines of doing so much by hand was calming, almost meditative. The drink would take a good ten minutes to come to maturity, but the ten minutes of waiting almost always proved a beneficial time in the evening.

He came back into the sitting room and took the chair opposite to Kirk's, assessing his weary countenance and rain-soaked clothes. The scent of damp material surrounded him, but he could also smell the fainter fragrances of a woman's perfume and makeup in the mixture of odours. Jim had obviously made the most of his meal out.

'Did you have a successful day?' Spock asked with interest.

'Oh, so-so,' Kirk smiled tiredly. 'Snippets and hearsay, that's all. I need to do some cross-checking with names and such – but it won't hurt to leave that until tomorrow, Spock.'

Spock nodded, sensing the captain's desire to simply sit still and quiet after his long day. He sat staring at the flames as they flickered and licked their way sinuously up towards the chimney. An open fire was certainly not the most efficient way of heating a house, but it was definitely one of the more pleasing ones. The effect of the flames was mesmerising.

After a few quiet minutes he realised that Kirk was gazing at him with a look of curiosity in his hazel eyes.

'You wish to ask me something, Jim,' he said after a moment of waiting. 'But – you are – afraid?'

Kirk smiled, the flickering light of the fire bronzing every contour of his face. Spock let his eyes focus unwaveringly on Jim's face in a way that disconcerted most humans – those humans that were not friends with a Vulcan, at least. His captain looked a little thinner that his usual average weight. His face seemed to have acquired more lines since Spock's incarceration and supposed execution, and there were the minute signs of over-consumption of alcohol. Spock had not noticed that until now. He allowed himself to be reassured by the fact that his captain had drunk no more than his usual intake of alcoholic drinks since they had been together in this house, and had certainly been eating well enough.

'I wouldn't say I'm afraid,' Jim said at length. 'But I don't know that it's a question you'd want to answer.'

'You can only know by asking,' Spock pointed out.

Jim chuckled, nodding – and then his face became serious again.

'Spock, what's it like – to die?'

Spock regarded his friend. Of all the things that Jim had faced without fear, death had never been one of them. He had not flinched from it – he had continued his duty to the end – but he had never been totally unafraid. It was logical, a healthy fear. Evolution dictated that one must fear one's own demise.

'I did not die,' he pointed out.

'But you *_thought*_ you were dying,' Jim insisted. 'You had no idea, until you woke up in that trench, that you hadn't died.'

'That is true,' Spock nodded, his gaze seeming to internalise until he was remembering that moment of imagined death with a clarity that he did not desire. That moment of white oblivion – that total lack of thought and reason and logic and *_everything*_ – was not something that he ever wished to repeat. In some ways the void was similar to the void of meditation – but it was the terrifying lack of control that chilled him.

He refocused on Kirk's face. Jim, with all of his human insight and empathy, had been right – it was not a question that he wanted to answer. Perhaps logic demanded that he feel the same taboo around death as Jim evidently did.

'There is a wealth of difference,' he said, 'between dying, and being executed for a crime one did not commit.'

Kirk was silent for a long moment, then he nodded, and said gravely, 'I guess there is.'

Spock could read the lines of unspoken words – Jim was sorry that he had had to experience that, he was sorry he had not been able to save his friend from it, he was suffused with relief that a blessed difference in biology had kept the final solution from being final. Then Kirk made a deliberate effort to break his gaze, flicking his eyes towards the kitchen door where the pot was bubbling on the stove.

'I'll go get that coffee,' he said, heaving himself out of his armchair.

Spock shook his head, not bothering this time to correct Kirk's misplaced nomenclature for the brew in the pot. Whatever the drink was, it most definitely was *_not*_ coffee. But it seemed that in calling it such, Jim managed to garner some of the benefits that coffee had to him, with all of his illogical human susceptibility to the placebo effect.

'*_I*_ will get the coffee,' he said. 'Your trousers and shoes are quite wet, and your shirt is certainly wet enough. Go and change. You will catch a cold.'

Kirk's eyes sparkled at him.

'Is that really logical, Spock? Has anyone ever caught a cold just from being wet?'

'I imagine that at some point in the history of the universe a person has succumbed to a viral infection due to being wet, and therefore cold, and therefore less resistant to illness – especially on an alien planet where that person had no natural immunity.'

'Not being specific, of course,' Kirk grinned. 'All right, Spock. I'll go change. There're some fresh clothes in the laundry, aren't there?'

'Indeed there are,' Spock nodded. 'I saw to that while you were out. You can put your wet clothes straight in the machine.'

It was almost amusing how they had fallen so naturally into living like a couple in their own home. Kirk seemed to be struck by the same thought, but he said nothing. He simply smiled, and went through the door into the small laundry room.

Spock went into the kitchen and quickly removed the coffee pot from the heat. He held it poised above two mugs, and then recalled that sometimes Kirk preferred a small amount of alcohol slipped into the dark liquid after a day such as this. He put the pot back down and went back into the sitting room.

'Jim?' he called.

The door into the laundry was half open.

'Yes, Spock?' Kirk replied. He sounded as if he was bending over – presumably he was taking off his shoes.

'Did you wish for *_al'cet_* in your coffee?' he asked, naming the fiery copper liquid that passed for whiskey in Kirk's eyes.

'Yeah, sure – if you'll take some too,' Kirk said wickedly.

Spock's eyebrow rose at Kirk's response. There was something so inviting about that tone that he almost felt inclined to agree.

Despite himself, he glanced through the gap in the door. The firelight had slipped through too, highlighting a wide strip of the captain's torso. Then, as he raised his arms to slip his shirt off over his head, the light bronzed the muscles of his flank, then rippled across him as he moved, now catching one hard nipple, now slipping over the dimple of his navel, now catching the proud curls of hair as he unfastened his trousers and began to push them down.

Spock gasped in air, turning his eyes resolutely back to the fire. He had actually _*forgotten to breathe*_. He had stood there transfixed, like a love-struck teenager, and he had forgotten to breathe…

He closed his eyes, clenching his fists, steadying himself. When had this begun? When, in his immensely controlled, disciplined, focussed brain, had this one golden human slipped beyond the areas reserved for friendship, and imprinted himself in those deep, repressed recesses dedicated to lust?

'Spock? Spock, are you all right?'

Spock snapped his eyes open, aware of Jim's hand touching his shoulder. He looked round. Kirk was dressed again, in a loose t-shirt and trousers, a towel around his shoulders that had evidently been used to scrub the water from his hair.

'I am – quite fine, Captain,' he said automatically.

'It still bothers you, doesn't it?' Kirk asked gently.

Spock blinked, and asked, 'Bothers me?'

'You've never come so close to dying,' Jim said in a tone of understanding. 'I can understand how it – haunts you. Hell, it haunts *_me_* badly enough. I thought I'd lost you…'

Spock looked at him, then nodded minutely. Perhaps that had not been what had distracted him at that precise moment – but Jim was right. For all of the human romanticism of the phrase, the execution _*did_* haunt him.

'We'll get you out of here, Spock,' Kirk said firmly, coming to stand in front of him, putting his hands on both of his shoulders. 'We'll find the person who did it, and we'll prove your innocence, and you'll be back on the ship, where you belong.'

'Yes, I know,' Spock said in a low tone.

At this precise moment, he did not want to be in the cool, sterile grey enclosure of the ship. He wanted to be here, in this forest-bound cottage, with the blazing fire and the silence and the solitude, and … with *_Jim*_. Jim was staring into his eyes, trying to give him the reassurance that he would help him. He stared back, suddenly aware of every flame-like striation of Jim's irises – the hazel and the gold and the brown and green and… He had never noticed that there were so many colours in Jim's eyes before, circling about those pure black pupils like something on the edge of a whirlpool, a vortex, a black hole… A place you could fall into and never come out.

'Jim…' he said. Then, tasting the long, so rarely used syllable like a delicacy on his tongue, he said, 'James…'

Jim's lips moved as if to speak, or as if to taste something, or as if – to move forwards and touch his own in all of their cool, human softness. Spock's own lips suddenly felt as if they were burning, and being brushed by roses, or – or… All thought, both logical and illogical, broke down as his being disappeared into the kiss.

******

He seemed to be surfacing from a long time underwater. Again, he had forgotten to breathe. He had forgotten to do anything but to let his own lips keep moving against those cool human ones, keep feeling their ripe softness, keep tasting the scent of the air in Jim's mouth, and the wet red insides of tongue and cheek, and feeling the smooth, perfect teeth with his own tongue. For a long moment, nothing in the world had existed but those two mouths, in perfect communion.

Then he became aware of the strong hand on his back, that had slipped under his shirt and was pressing against his naked skin, and of the fact that his own hands were exploring the short brown-blond hair of Jim's head, and that his entire body was pressed against his captain's as if, unconsciously, they were trying to become one being.

'Jim,' he murmured, an unaccustomed fear suddenly rippling through him. 'Jim, are you – ?'

For a moment Jim paused in his movement, then he said very seriously, 'Spock, if you break this moment with one word about logic, I swear I'll – '

'I – can barely remember what logic is,' Spock said honestly.

He gasped audibly as Jim's tongue touched the skin just below his earlobe, and began to trail down towards the neckline of his shirt. He tilted his head back, trying to control the heady urge to moan as the languorous, tickling touch moved to his collarbone, and traced along it. His chest seemed to exploding with sensation, the touch of Jim's tongue travelling along nerves he had barely been aware of, sending electricity through his nipples, making his stomach tighten, culminating in a wild maelstrom at the base of his pubis that he had no idea how to quantify. His clothes suddenly seemed like stupid encumbrances, and Jim had obviously thought that too, because his hands were fumbling at the fastenings of Spock's shirt, and Spock's own hands, strangely unsteady and uncontrollable, were actually _*ripping_* at Kirk's freshly donned clothes as if he were unwrapping a present.

'Oh God, Spock, I want you,' Jim said in a low voice that did not sound like his own.

And he was leading Spock closer to the fire even as they shed layers of clothing, and Spock almost froze as he unwrapped the final layer, and saw _*Jim_*, complete in his nudity, a symphony of taut muscles and bronzed skin touched by firelight, and that so-human, so-uncontrollable hardness that was growing purely for the desire of Spock himself.

He was suddenly aware of the burning heat of the fire on his own skin. Jim had peeled his clothes away and flung them somewhere, in a corner somewhere. It did not matter. He never wanted to wear clothes again. They were standing before the fire, basking in its heat, both seemingly more naked than they had ever been in their lives. Jim's hands seemed to be everywhere at once, running up the muscles of Spock's back, exploring the flatness of his chest, the dimple of his navel, catching the curve of his buttocks and seeking so very briefly between them before flitting to another place to explore.

'Oh my God, Spock, I don't think I've ever wanted so much to be inside of someone,' Jim said in a rushed, fevered voice.

Uncertainty suddenly crashed over him at Jim's words, despite the enticing, mesmerising feel of Jim's hands slipping all over his body.

'Jim – I don't – ' he began.

'And you think I _*do_*?' Kirk asked incredulously, almost laughing. His hazel eyes met Spock's ebony ones. 'Spock, do you think I've ever, _*ever_*, done something like this before?'

Spock shook his head minutely, staring at Jim, his lips parted. He felt like someone newborn. He did not know how to walk, how to speak, which way to turn. And then all decisions were made for him, as Jim tackled him with something approaching a growl, bringing him down to the rug in one easy movement, straddling him and then cradling his hands behind Spock's head, weaving his fingers through the dark strands of Spock's over-long hair, and gently, ever so gently, lifting Spock's mouth towards his so that he could taste the sweet insides of his cheeks and tongue and teeth again.

'Please,' Jim murmured, stroking his thumbs across Spock's forehead. 'Spock, please,' he continued, planting a kiss on a different part of his face between each word. 'Please, let me be in you. I need to be part of you. Oh, God, I thought I'd lost you, Spock. I really thought I'd lost you.'

And through the touch of Jim's fingers on his face Spock felt the crashing wave of sharp agony like an unexpected tsunami as Jim's realisation of the magnitude of what he had lost and what he had regained surged through his mind. The emotional peak was almost painful to Spock as it rushed into his own thoughts, and back again into Jim's, and he realised that whenever Jim's face came close to his now he could feel the salt wetness of tears against his skin.

'Jim,' he whispered, tracing a thumb over the wetness on his cheek. 'You need not grieve for me. I am here. I will always be here.'

Jim's eyes closed, hard, as he pulled control back with an almost Vulcan discipline. He nodded mutely, then opened his eyes again, looking down at the man whose fever-hot body he held clenched between his thighs. Spock was so undeniably real, so solid, down to the exquisitely warm, exquisitely hard erection that had grown beneath Jim's body as he straddled his hips.

_*What a thing to feel burning along the underside of your thigh_*, he thought as he resettled his weight. _*What a thing to know that Spock has made just for the desire of _*you_*, and nothing else. Oh, God, I want to bury myself in the heat of him. I want to lose myself…_*

As if Spock had understood his thoughts he continued softly, 'I wish you to do whatever you desire with me, Jim. I want nothing more.'

'Spock,' he murmured in a low, drawn out voice, then said more nervously, 'You know, I've never done this before…'

'You had mentioned,' Spock said with the hint of a smile on his face, and a definite smile in his eyes.

He didn't think he had ever felt so relaxed, lying here in utter nakedness on the floor, with the heat of the fire stroking at his side, and the human-cool of Jim astride him, dominating him completely.

'Jim, if you do not initiate yourself soon, then I may be forced to do so,' he said in utter seriousness. 'I am capable of admirable self-control, but – '

Jim growled, and proceeded to initiate himself with all of the verve and skill that he applied to every other task in life.


	8. Chapter 7

7.

'You never did get me that coffee,' Jim said.

Spock stirred sleepily. He was perfectly content, lying curled on his side on the rug before the fire, allowing his body to act as a shield to stop the blazing heat from burning Jim. Jim was still curled behind him, his body touching at every point, his arm heavy and relaxed across Spock's flank. The fire light dazzled Spock's eyes, and the heat washed at him like a high summer day on Vulcan, and at his back was Jim, always Jim, keeping him safe from harm.

'It is not coffee,' Spock murmured. 'Besides, the _*laftin_* does not react well to brewing.'

'Well, that's true,' Kirk smiled. He sounded as sleepy as Spock felt.

Reluctantly, Spock shifted himself, curling upwards like a cat to sit on his haunches on the rug.

'I need to wash,' he said. While his part in proceedings had proved highly enjoyable, it had also been rather more messy for him than it had for Jim. 'I will go do so, then I will make more _*laftin_*.'

Kirk lazily stroked his hand down Spock's thigh, marvelling at the change that had taken place in their relationship in the last hour or so.

'It's a big bath here, Spock,' he said with a smile.

'That is true,' Spock nodded.

'I could do with a wash myself.'

'Well, I shall not be too long, Jim,' Spock reassured him.

'*_Spock!_*' Kirk said in exasperation.

'Oh…' Spock said slowly. 'You mean, you wish to share?'

'_*Yes_*, Spock.'

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'You might simply have said so, Jim. I am not a mindreader.'

'Really?' Jim asked playfully. 'I thought you were, Mr Spock?'

Spock tilted his head to the side. 'Well… It is the height of rudeness to make contact without permission…'

'Well, in lieu of mindreading, Spock,' Kirk said with slow, deliberate clarity, 'I want to fill that great bath down there with hot, hot water, and I want to put so much bubble bath in it that it looks like an explosion in a bubble factory, and I want to slip into the water with you and find out what you feel like when you're hot and wet and soapy.'

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'I thought for a minute, Jim, that you were going to suggest further intercourse,' he said.

Much to Spock's surprise, Kirk snorted with laughter.

'Spock, you put everything so romantically,' he said in exasperation. 'Yes, Mr Spock,' he nodded. 'I would like, in that hot, bubble-filled bath, for you to – fuck my brains out.'

Spock's eyebrow lifted even higher. 'There is no need for crudity,' he said in a rather hurt tone. Then he added, 'I need very little persuasion to return the favour, Jim. You may believe in that.'

He stood up, then reached out a hand to pull Kirk to his feet.

******

Spock had had intercourse before, but never like this. Never sunk up to the neck in hot water, with thick drifts of bubbles tickling at his chin and neck and earlobes. Never when the partner nestled so contentedly alongside him was male, was his own captain – was *_Jim_*.

He thought back briefly to Leila Kalomi, to the irresponsible excitement of finding secluded areas in the barn, on wild hillsides, in the homely comfort of her patchwork bed. He had been happy. He had been content, but with that edge of danger, with that constant thought of, _*if Jim happened across us_*. If Jim happened across us, what? He would be furious? He would be shocked? He would – sink alongside them and add his own uniqueness to that heady mix? Even as he thrust into her softness with human vigour, he had thought, _*If Jim were to see me now…_* Always Jim – and he had not realised what that had meant. His relief – his overwhelming relief, despite the sadness, when he came back to Jim, when Jim angered him to the point of violence, and the cold water drenched over him as he realised his place and his loyalty. When he could turn back to that one man on the bridge, restored to perfect reality…

He stroked a hand down Jim's flank, made slippery by the mixture of hot water and soap. He traced his fingers over the firm musculature of his buttock and thigh, naming each separate muscle in his mind with concise precision, and uniting those scientific certainties with the thrill of pleasure that the touching of them produced. He considered what he was doing. Was it logical? In many ways, he believed it was. Such a relationship did not have any direct impact on the world around him, but it did produce secondary benefits. It produced relaxation, and reassurance, and contentment, which were all beneficial to a state of being.

Was it emotional? Spock allowed himself a small smile. It was, incontrovertibly, emotional – but the presence of emotions did not always preclude logic. Happiness and contentment often produced a better working relationship. He did not believe that his and his captain's relationship had ever been better.

'Are you going to sit there analysing all night?' Kirk asked him, breaking into his thoughts. 'I can practically hear the cogs turning.'

Spock regarded him. 'There are no mechanical moving parts within my brain, Jim, contrary to whatever Dr McCoy may tell you.'

'Are you sure?' Kirk asked mischievously.

'I will prove it,' Spock said with determination.

He spent a moment considering the shape of the bath, the complexities of the human and Vulcan body, and the depth of the water. In order to produce the most convenient position, but also to prevent drowning, there seemed to be one logical solution.

He slipped briefly out of the bath into the hot air of the bathroom.

'Close your eyes, Jim,' he said softly.

Kirk looked at him with momentary surprise, wondering if the Vulcan had suddenly become bashful. It had to be said that he looked rather amusing, standing there patched with trembling heaps of foam that had clung to his body when he stood up.

'Close your eyes,' Spock repeated more firmly.

Kirk gave him a bemused smile, and obeyed.

Spock turned to one of the bathrobes that hung on the back of the bathroom door, and removed the belt from it. There was a radiator running up the wall behind the bath, made from intricately twisting metal tubes. Spock reached into the water and captured Jim's wrists. He raised his arms, and tied them expertly together, and then looped the belt around the metal of the radiator, high enough to be sure that there was no possibility of Jim's head slipping below the water.

Jim opened his eyes in sudden alarm, staring at the Vulcan.

'Spock, what the hell – ' he began.

'I have merely devised a logical solution to prevent you from drowning,' he said reasonably.

'By making me helpless?' Kirk asked incredulously.

A smile touched the corners of Spock's mouth. 'That is, of course, a regretful side-effect of the solution,' he said.

Kirk registered the subtle emotion on the Vulcan's face.

'You're getting off on this!' he realised.

Spock looked bewildered, but he didn't ask the meaning of the phrase. Jim felt a sudden heat building in the pit of his belly. Spock, aroused. Spock, aroused by the prospect of binding his captain's arms immovably to the wall, and indulging in perfect freedom.

The Vulcan shook the confusion out of his head, replacing it with focussed determination. He stepped back into the bath, purposefully placing himself between Kirk's legs. The water rose, lapping about his captain's chest. He knelt, and the water rose a little higher. He had judged the amount of displacement precisely. At no point would it reach Jim's mouth or nose.

He slipped his hands into the water, and with great care placed them firmly on Kirk's hips, lifting him up a little. Jim gasped, feeling the hardness and hotness of the Vulcan's erection brushing against him in the water, and Spock hesitated, looking into Jim's eyes again. Kirk looked at him directly, hiding nothing in his gaze, and Spock took that as assent.

He positioned himself, his tip slipping so perfectly to the desired location that the human body seemed purposefully designed for this. He eased forward, pushing with the same degree of care and caution that Jim had used with him just half an hour earlier. The memory of that feeling, the slight apprehension and then the surprising pleasure of the solidity of Jim sliding into him, overwhelmed him for a moment. But then this new feeling, this tightness that gripped around him, began to push away that other memory. This feeling of _*Jim_*, the deep, warm inside of Jim, stroking him with a clenching firmness, began to push away every other thought in his mind.

He began to move himself in an ageless rhythm, his hands gripped on Jim's hips, feeling his muscles tense and flex under his fingers. Jim's head was thrown back, the perfect angles of the underside of his chin and the length of his throat catching the light, his mouth open and emitting tiny gasps of pleasure. And the fire built in the pit of his belly, sending shivers of pleasure through his body, and he savoured each one in the way that only a Vulcan could, with the total appreciation of a thing so rarely allowed to him.

'Oh – God, Spock,' Kirk ground out. 'God, Spock, please…'

Spock was almost unconscious of the reality around him, but those sounds pleased him, and heightened the consuming pulses of desire in his own body, and suddenly the sensation of complete pleasure exploded in his mind, and he found himself bent forward against Jim, chest against chest, mouth against mouth, as he jetted his seed into his body.

'Oh, God, Spock,' Kirk murmured finally.

Spock came back to himself, feeling his cheek against Jim's cheek, and his waning erection slipping from his body, and realising that –

'Oh,' he said slowly, pressing a hand to his side as a tightness overcame his chest.

'I know,' Jim murmured.

'No,' he said, ripping at the ties on Kirk's wrists, logic asserting itself with cold clarity. 'Jim, my heart – '

The same clear logic seemed to strike Kirk as the same time, and he proved precisely why he had been granted the captaincy of a starship. He pulled out the bathplug with his toes at the same time as he gripped his arms about Spock's chest, hefting him out of the bath and onto the floor. He laid him carefully on the heated tiles, touching a hand briefly to the side of his chest where Spock's own hand was resting and feeling the odd a-rhythmic pounding under his ribs. He ran without further delay for the medical kit in Spock's bedroom, and returning to see him lying still on the floor, eyes closed, obviously trying with all of his power to control and calm his heart rate. Kirk gave the Vulcan the briefest of scans, to confirm the most probable scenario, and then took the prepared hypo, and pressured the full dose into the Vulcan's arm.

Spock lay breathing in short, tight gasps, steam rising from his body in small wisps. His face was an odd, unpleasant grey, but a green flush seemed to be slowly returning to his cheeks.

'Better?' Kirk asked urgently, scanning him again, and Spock gave a minute nod, opening his eyes to fix them on Kirk's.

'The – tightness is – dissipating,' he said with effort.

'Spock,' Kirk said in a low voice, brushing his wet hair from his forehead with one hand. 'God, Spock, don't do that to me. Please don't do that to me again…'

Spock's eyebrow quirked upwards minutely.

'I – assure you, Jim. I – had very little intention – of provoking a heart attack. Sincerely. The experience – was pleasant – but not to die for…'

'Spock,' Kirk murmured again.

He briefly towelled the last of the water away from the Vulcan's body, then picked him up in his arms and carried him through without preamble into his bedroom. He set the Vulcan down on the wide bed there, and sat down beside him.

'You know how to scare a person,' he said. 'Do you know that?'

Spock's eyebrow rose again. He was looking brighter by the minute as McCoy's drugs did their work, but he was lamentably weak.

'That was quite obvious,' he said. 'I believe that you were as pale as I felt. As I said, I had absolutely no intention – '

Kirk exhaled, and nodded, checking the Vulcan's pulse and heart rate again, before setting up the monitoring devices that McCoy had sent for precisely this occurrence.

'I need to call McCoy,' he said restlessly. 'He's going to want to know about this. He might want a visual communication.'

Spock's eyebrow rose higher. 'Then may I suggest that you don some clothing – and think of a plausible excuse for the activity that provoked this attack?'

'Hmm,' Kirk said. Then he said with a sudden fierce determination, 'I swear to God, Spock, I'm going to work out just how to prove your innocence, and I'm going to get you off this godforsaken planet and back to the _Enterprise_ where you belong. I swear to God I am…'

'I know, Jim,' Spock said quietly. He glanced sideways at the portable monitors that were softly beeping and humming next to him. 'You may want to give the monitors half an hour to gather data before you call the good doctor. That will give us plenty of time to think of a plausible excuse…'

******

Kirk had chosen to go upstairs to the comm unit in the kitchen to contact McCoy. The instruments monitoring Spock had a remote screen unit that could be put anywhere in the house, enabling him to be certain that Spock was fine even while he was in another room, but he had diligently stayed at Spock's side for the first half-hour, watching him intently for any sign of worse illness. Now he was more comfortable with leaving the Vulcan, he was grateful that the comm unit was upstairs, wanting the excuse to break the news to McCoy alone, without Spock able to see the depth of his concern.

'He was doing _*what_,* Jim?' McCoy asked as Kirk tried to give his excuses, his incredulity reaching such a pitch that he pronounced the word, _*hwat_,* Anglo-Saxon style. 'Of all the stupid, insane, crazy – '

'He just – wanted some exercise, to see how much fitness he'd lost,' Kirk said limply, glad that Spock could not see how atrociously he was managing to lie. 'He wanted to see how many times he could run up and down the stairs in five minutes.'

'Goddammit, Jim!' McCoy exclaimed. 'The man's got a goddamn heart condition! Thank God there aren't stairs on the _Enterprise_, or he'd never get better after anything…'

'Bones,' Kirk said softly, shaking his head. He could not imagine how relevant having or not having stairs on the _Enterprise_ was to Spock's general health.

'All right, Jim. It doesn't so much matter how,' he admitted. 'Just send me through the readings, and I'll take a good look at them. And _*keep him off the stairs!*_'

'All right, Bones,' Kirk said in a chastened tone.

'It's okay, Jim,' McCoy reassured him. 'It's not totally unexpected. You did the right thing – you acted immediately, and stopped the attack before it could do too much damage. That's the main thing. Once I've assessed the seriousness of the attack, we can work on repairing the damage.'

'It won't take too long to assess?' Kirk asked anxiously.

'I'll get back to you within half an hour,' McCoy promised. 'I'll want the visual link set up by then. Illogical, I know, but I want to actually _*see_* how that green-blooded son-of-a-hobgoblin's doing, rather than getting it through figures on a chart.'

'It'll be set up, Bones,' Kirk promised. 'Half an hour. Out.'

He cut the communication, then went to find the bulky visual adapter for the communicator. He had not had cause to use it yet, and had only brought it on McCoy's insistence, for just this type of event. It would be easy enough to set it up in Spock's room.

Spock's eyes were closed as he entered the room with his arms clasped around the large comm screen, but they opened as soon as the Vulcan heard him enter.

'I'm all right, Jim,' he said before Kirk could ask. 'I am tired, and there is some residual aching and tightness in my side, but that is all.'

'You're sure?' Kirk asked, putting the comm screen down beside the bed and stroking a hand over his forehead. He had not realised before how much he had longed to touch Spock's hair, but now he had access to it he could not keep his fingers away from the fascinating dark strands.

'I am sure,' Spock nodded, capturing Jim's hand between his own and holding it there, his eyes sparkling with an affection that he had never felt comfortable with showing before.

'Bones is going to look at the data, and call back in half an hour,' Kirk told him, sitting down beside him on the mattress. 'You'll be fine, Spock.'

Spock allowed the corners of his mouth to lift.

'I know, Jim,' he said, aware that Kirk needed more reassurance than he himself did.

They sat largely in silence while they waited for McCoy's return call. Kirk set up the screen beside the bed, then resumed his position on the mattress at Spock's hip. Occasionally he glanced at the monitors that were translating every nuance of the Vulcan's life processes into blips and waves, and Spock followed his gaze, and interpreted the precise meaning of those blips and waves into reassuring words.

'My heartbeat is becoming more regular,' he was saying as the communicator bleeped.

Kirk jumped as if he had been caught stealing, transferring himself to the chair by the bed even as his hand shot to the comm button as if he was striking a fire alarm.

'Bones?' he said swiftly.

McCoy's face appeared on the screen, and Spock experienced a most unVulcan pang of nostalgia as he saw the background of the doctor's familiar office, with its shelves of medical antiques and curios decorating the walls.

'Dr McCoy,' he said. 'It is gratifying to see your face.'

'And yours too,' McCoy nodded, still carefully avoiding the use of the Vulcan's name. 'Don't worry,' he said, glancing towards the door to his office. 'Door's locked on the most secure circuit. No one's going to barge in.'

'And no one's got any wind of this?' Kirk asked anxiously.

'I processed everything in complete privacy,' McCoy said. 'Hell, it's about – ' He glanced at something off-screen, and groaned. 'It's twenty past four in the morning here. Most sane people are asleep. And someone's taught me enough devious tricks about these computers to cover the traces.'

Kirk glanced at Spock with a smile, interpreting _*someone_* to mean the Vulcan beside him. McCoy was still being fastidious about not using Spock's name in case of someone overhearing, even at four a.m..

'Oh, and I passed on that message,' McCoy said, looking pointedly at Spock. 'And the people you wanted me to speak to are mighty relieved.'

'Thank you, Dr McCoy,' Spock with sincere gratitude on his face. He looked at Kirk, perceiving his puzzlement, and said *_sotto voce*_, 'My parents.'

Kirk nodded briefly, then turned back to the screen.

'Bones, the results,' he said impatiently. 'You've got them through?'

'I've got them through,' McCoy nodded, turning his attention briefly to a padd on the desk. 'I'm patching them through to your terminal, with my recommendations for treatment. It wasn't a severe attack at least. You did well at controlling your heart rate,' he said, looking pointedly towards Spock, 'and Jim did well at treating you so quickly. I'm prescribing a specific course of drugs in the next few days that should help, and I want you to stay in bed until your bio-rhythms are back to safe levels. Everything's in the data I've sent you. But _*no strenuous activity,_*' he said firmly, fixing a glare on the Vulcan. 'Seriously. Each attack will weaken your heart to the point where I won't be able to help you without hands-on attention. Do you understand that, you pig-headed – '

'Yes, I understand that,' Spock broke in seriously. 'I will endeavour to be very good, Dr McCoy,' he said in a contrite tone.

'You'd better be,' McCoy said severely. He leant closer to the screen. 'Well, your colour looks okay, you seem well enough, considering. But I want an update patched through to me here every six hours for the next few days. Clear?'

'Of course, Doctor,' Spock nodded, beginning to look amused.

'Hmph,' McCoy said in an unconvinced tone. 'Jim,' he said, turning towards the captain. 'Can I talk to you alone for a few minutes? Just some ship's business, that's all, but our patient needs his rest. I want him to try to sleep for a while.'

Kirk glanced at Spock, then back at the screen, and nodded.

'All right, Bones,' he said. 'I'll cut the visual, then just give me a few seconds to get upstairs.'

'That's fine, Jim,' McCoy nodded. 'And _*you_,*' he said, looking directly at Spock. 'You sleep.'

'Of course, sir,' Spock said archly, and he turned over onto his side and closed his eyes without further preamble.

******

'What was it about the ship, Bones?' Kirk asked, as soon as he had got upstairs and re-established the communication with the doctor.

'Nothing about the ship, Jim,' McCoy said in a strange tone. 'And, boy am I glad that I'm not having *_this* _conversation on visual…'

'What do you mean, Doc?' Kirk asked curiously.

'Jim, I may just be an old country doctor, but I know a fair amount about bio-chemistry,' McCoy said in a drawn-out tone. 'I've got a damn good head nurse who knows a lot about bio-chemistry too, and she's accumulated quite a few texts on the problems of Vulcans. The bio-chemical readouts from our patient's body tell me that just prior to the heart attack his body was flooded with the Vulcan version of testosterone, and a good few other Vulcan-specific hormones, too.'

'What of it, Bones?' Kirk asked, trying to keep his tone light and innocent.

'Jim,' McCoy said impatiently. 'You both assured me that he hasn't been out of the house since he got there, and I'm guessing you haven't had visitors. That's why I'm speaking to _*you_* and not to him, because I'm pretty damn sure I'm not breaking any confidences. I don't think I could take talking about this with him…'

'Talking about _*what,_* Bones?' Kirk asked impatiently, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

McCoy sighed. 'Jim, there are certain chemicals that are only released in a Vulcan's body during sexual intercourse. Not during masturbation. Not as a result of heavy foreplay or illicit thoughts or anything like that – but _*only_* during full, penetrative sexual intercourse. Those chemicals are clear in his bloodstream, and they played a large part in provoking the attack. Now, you're the only person he's seen in the last few days, Jim-boy,' he said, his accent becoming more Southern all the while as his awkwardness grew. 'I don't want to pry into your personal life. Hell, this is the last subject on earth I want to be discussing with you, really it is. But, Jim, you _*cannot_* put him through that again. You simply _*cannot_.* There is a very serious chance that it could kill him.'

'Kill him…' Kirk echoed, all embarrassment pushed out of his head by those cold, real words.

'Indulge in Vulcan finger play, in mutual petting, in whatever you like, Jim,' McCoy said, sounding as if he was trying very hard to do away with his uncomfortableness. 'Hell, you can – Jesus… You can penetrate him if he doesn't over-exert himself while it's going on. Just – for God's sake, and I can't believe I'm discussing this – just don't let him do _*that_* again.'

'All right, Bones,' Kirk said quietly, after a long pause. 'All right, I understand what you're saying. I'll let him know…'

'Good,' McCoy said, his voice oddly gruff. 'I should sign off now, anyway. We've already been talking for too long.'

'Yes, you're right,' Jim said tiredly.

He could not help but feel apprehensive about the night ahead with a Vulcan who had just suffered a minor heart attack. This cottage on Malker suddenly seemed terribly isolated, when there was not one person on the planet that they could trust to help Spock in a medical crisis.

'Don't worry, Jim,' McCoy said firmly, reading the worry in his tone. 'He'll be just fine. Let him sleep tonight, give him the medicines that I've prescribed, and keep the monitors on him. He'll probably wake up in the morning protesting that he's fit to run a marathon. He _*won't_* be fit to run a marathon, mind, but he will be much better. It's your job to make sure he doesn't move from that bed any further than the bathroom, at least for twenty-four hours.'

'He won't,' Kirk said firmly. 'I can promise you that, Bones.'

'And Jim,' McCoy said softly.

'Yes, Bones?'

'I'm happy for you,' he said in a sincere tone. 'I'm happy for both of you. This has been coming on for a long time. I'm just glad you saw it before someone else had to point it out for you.'

'Thank you, Bones,' Kirk said with a smile. 'Truly. Thank you for everything. I'll check in with you in six hours.'

'Good,' McCoy said in a satisfied tone. 'Now try to get some sleep.'

'I will,' Kirk said. 'Night, Bones.'

'Night, Jim,' McCoy replied. 'McCoy out.'

Kirk turned the comm off, and stood there for a moment, smiling at the thought of his friend so far away on the _Enterprise._ McCoy could be downright un-tactful when he wanted to be – but this was not one of those times. It was good to think of him there on the ship, with concern for both of his friend foremost in his mind.

He went back downstairs to find that Spock had obeyed McCoy's orders to the letter, and was deep in sleep, lying on his side in the bed. Kirk smiled down at him, remembering that he was still naked under the blankets.

'That coffee'll have to wait until tomorrow,' he murmured.

He stood for a moment, gazing down at the Vulcan, before slipping his own clothes off and carefully getting into the wide bed himself, snuggling himself close to Spock's warm Vulcan body, and drifting off to sleep surrounded by the scents and feeling of him.


	9. Chapter 8

8.

'Feeling any better?' Jim asked.

Spock blinked, coming slowly to wakefulness, realising that he was in the unaccustomed position of lying in bed with his captain's body warm and close alongside him. A moment later, and he remembered what had occurred to produce the tight ache in his chest and the overwhelming sense of enervation through his body.

'I am tired,' he said cautiously. 'But I do feel better.'

'Good,' Kirk smiled. 'Well, you've been asleep for a little over twelve hours. I've just spoken to Bones with your second run of readings, and he says there's a marked improvement.'

Spock nodded, pushing his hands onto the mattress to lever himself up a little in the bed. Jim immediately reached out to adjust the pillows behind his head, allowing Spock to rest back in a sitting position with very little effort. Kirk sat up against his own pillows, and looked at him.

'Er – Spock,' Kirk began. 'Bones also – knows what happened to provoke the heart attack,' he said awkwardly. 'It was – Apparently it was kinda obvious from the chemicals in your bloodstream.'

A momentary look of alarm flashed over the Vulcan's face.

'Don't worry about it,' Kirk told him firmly. 'He says he's happy for us. Apparently – he's known about this for longer than we have.'

Spock's eyebrow rose.

'I have often thought that a doctor's skills closely resemble those of a detective,' he said. 'But I did not realise that they also paralleled those of – a matchmaker.'

Kirk grinned. 'Perhaps I should have brought him along,' he said. 'We could use his detective skills.'

Spock looked at him. 'Do you truly wish that McCoy were here now?' he asked.

'Well,' Kirk said, abashed. 'Not in that sense, no. But we're working on a time limit here, Spock – at least as far as my career in Starfleet is concerned. I can't exactly go AWOL. And I really don't want to leave you alone here while I go out doing my Sherlock Holmes routine.'

'I assume the good doctor has an opinion on that matter?' Spock asked.

'McCoy's opinion,' Kirk began reluctantly, 'is that if you recover along projected lines, it should be safe enough to leave you alone after another twelve hours.'

'Then in practice, almost twenty-four hours,' Spock nodded. 'Unless you propose investigating by night?'

'Hmm,' Kirk said. 'My next line of attack was going to be this Achevian Sendar person.'

'And what of the woman in the alley?' Spock asked. 'You were meeting with her colleague last night, were you not? Did your encounter produce anything of use?'

'Er – ' Kirk began, suddenly looking guilty.

Spock stared at him, his eyes narrowing in understanding.

'Captain?' he asked, then said, 'Jim, I already suspected that you were utilising your – your more human talents to ingratiate yourself with the lady. Until you returned last night, no intimate relations had occurred between us.'

'Well, that's true,' Kirk said slowly. 'And Spock, I'm _*that_* close to getting what I need from her,' he said, measuring a small amount of space between finger and thumb. 'All I need is a few minutes on my own with the computer in her office, and I'll have all the details of that woman in the alley. I was going to meet her later. She's going away for a week tomorrow…'

'Then you will meet her,' Spock said firmly, a hard tone in his voice that had not been there before. 'And if you require it, you have my blessing to engage in any act with the woman that you deem necessary to your purpose.'

'Spock – ' Kirk looked at his watch. 'Spock, I'd arranged to meet her at four. That's barely six hours from now. Bones doesn't want you on your own for _*twelve_* hours.'

Spock shook his head. 'You will meet her,' he said firmly. 'We have both risked a great deal in this attempt to clear my name and make it possible for me to return to the ship. I will not, having come this far, lose what we have gained because of a transitory physical weakness.'

'Transitory physical…' Kirk echoed. 'Spock, a heart attack is not exactly – '

'In the realm of cardiac illness, this was a relatively minor event,' Spock persisted. 'I will keep a communicator and a hypo within reach at all times. We can programme this medical equipment to send an alert to you in the event of any fluctuation in the readings. I will wear a portable monitor, so that if I need to move about – '

'You won't,' Kirk said firmly.

'Jim,' Spock said patiently. 'I have excellent control over many of my biological processes, but nature does, inevitably, take its course. I will have to move from this bed at some point.'

'All right, I concede that,' Kirk nodded. 'And I concede that it's important for me to meet with this woman. But will you promise - _*promise_* - to take care of yourself while I'm gone?'

'I have very little intention of worsening my illness to the point of death,' Spock said seriously. 'After all, we are attempting to secure my life. Now. It is – midday, is it not?'

Kirk nodded.

'Then we have plenty of time before you must leave. In the interest of the health of my heart, I think that a certain amount of physical contact would be beneficial.'

'Physical contact?' Kirk echoed.

'I think you would call it – snuggling,' Spock said with a gleam in his eye. 'I think we're capable of limiting our activity to levels of which McCoy would approve.'

Kirk grinned. 'Much as I don't want to visualise Bones standing over us and approving or disapproving,' he said, 'I can't help but agree.'

He moved across the bed to come closer to the Vulcan, until he could feel the heat of Spock's body along the length of his again, Spock's hip butting against his own, Spock's feet tangling with his feet. He slipped his arm over the Vulcan's chest, relishing in the hot, clean, dry sensation of his skin and the dark hair that lightly furred over the top of it.

'You don't even smell like a human,' he murmured.

'I am not a human,' Spock said astutely.

'No kidding,' Kirk murmured, tracing his fingertips through that hair, and across one of the Vulcan's nipples. 'What is it in Vulcan sweat that makes you smell like that?'

'Like _*that?_*' Spock asked dubiously.

'So damn good,' Kirk elaborated. 'Like some kind of hot, spiced dessert. Like something my mom would think would go well with apples.'

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'I do not desire your mother to consume me with apples,' he said seriously.

'Neither do I, Spock,' Kirk said in all earnestness.

He lay in silence for a time, his head on Spock's chest, Spock's arm about his shoulders. He could hear the Vulcan's heart beating steadily beneath its strong cradle of ribs, with no hint that there was or ever had been anything wrong with that vital organ.

'How long had you known, Jim?' Spock asked finally.

'Known?' Kirk asked sleepily.

'Your actions last night. Were they as spontaneous as mine?'

Kirk chuckled.

'I thought they were… But then, it turns out that Bones has known for ages. Hell, I think Command might even have known, since they gave me compassionate leave that's usually only doled out to family. I'd – perhaps I'd considered it, once or twice. But I was afraid you'd think it wasn't logical,' he said quietly.

'Love is not logical,' Spock said simply. 'Besides, there is much logic in our union.'

'Our union,' Kirk murmured, nestling a little closer into the warmth of the Vulcan's chest. There were few places he ever felt entirely at rest – but it seemed at last that he had found one. 'I like the sound of that.'

'Yes,' Spock agreed, the depth of his voice rumbling through his chest into Kirk's ear. Jim smiled, thinking how privileged he was to hear that voice directly through the cage of the Vulcan's ribs rather than through air separating them.

'Go on then – spell out the logic for me,' Jim challenged him playfully. 'I'd like to hear you arguing for the merits of same-sex relationships.'

One eyebrow lifted smoothly. 'I would not be arguing for the merits of same-sex relationships. I would be arguing for the merit of *_our*_ relationship. But since you mention it, there is a vast deal of logic in same-sex relationships in a society where the infant survival rate is stable and sustainable. It is always useful to have members of society who are unencumbered by children. Vulcan does not condemn such relationships.'

'And the merit of *_our*_ relationship?' Kirk asked.

'My first argument would be that since every relationship is entirely unique, physical gender bears very little relevance.'

'Go on – what else?'

'There are physical benefits…'

'Go on.'

'As long as we are both physically healthy, no contraception is needed during sexual intercourse.'

'No, that's true,' Kirk said, trailing a finger down the Vulcan's thigh.

Suddenly he burned to feel the solidity of Spock inside him, or Spock clenched around his own organ, and he struggled to suppress his very human desire.

'That does save bother, doesn't it?' he said. 'What else?'

A humorous sparkle lit up Spock's eyes.

'Since we are both male, we are more likely to know what is pleasurable to the other. There is incontrovertible evidence of one another's orgasm. We can have an absolutely equal partnership.'

Kirk sat up a little at that. 'Absolutely equal?' he asked, the smallest hint of worry entering his voice. 'That's fine – completely fine,' he said in a hurried tone. 'I wouldn't want anything less. But – I am the captain of the _Enterprise_, Spock. I hadn't thought about the problems…'

Spock straightened up too. 'Jim, you will *_always*_ be my commanding officer,' he said. 'I am capable of separating my personal life from my duty.'

'Yes. Yes, you are, I know,' Kirk said, settling down again against the Vulcan's body. 'Do you think *_I*_ am?'

'I believe so,' Spock nodded, regarding him with an unwavering gaze. 'You have always been an excellent commander, despite any personal complications.'

'Well,' Kirk said with a long sigh. 'I guess I should live up to that compliment, and get my ass out of bed and get myself sorted. Are you hungry?'

'Considerably,' Spock nodded, his eyebrow raising in slight surprise.

Kirk grinned. 'Impromptu love-making will always get you like that, Spock,' he said. 'Ordinarily I'd offer you ham and eggs, but I guess that wouldn't go down too well.'

Spock gave him a muted look that might possibly be interpreted as disgust.

'Don't worry,' Kirk laughed. 'I'll fix you some kind of indulgent vegetarian fare – as long as I can think of something suitably indulgent. And I'll tell you something – I smuggled in a very small amount of *_real_* coffee – Orion Java. Just enough for emergencies.'

'I am uncertain as to when the need for coffee constitutes an emergency,' Spock pointed out evenly.

'Trust me, Spock – sometimes it does,' Kirk said firmly. 'I'll fix you breakfast, and show you just how good morning-after coffee is when you're tucked up in bed with the person you enjoyed the night before – then I really must get sorted out for meeting this woman.'

******

Alone again, Spock lay in bed, pondering on recent events. He had allowed Jim to indulge his own concerns by indulging Spock – but now, in the aftermath of Jim's leaving, he felt curiously lonely. He was also, he had to admit, bored. Physical illness was almost unfailingly boring. Jim had left him with everything he needed within easy reach, and he had a computer and communicator at hand, and books to read and music to listen to. But – he was bored.

Perhaps it was the comparison between his situation at the moment, and the situation of last night. Last night had been – _*stimulating_,* in more ways than one. The physical contact of another body, the sparks of mental closeness, the new and intriguing direction that his relationship with his beloved captain had taken… There was a world of difference between that, and lying here, weak through his entire body, waiting for Jim to return.

He glanced sideways at the monitors that were constantly tracking his body's readings. They were showing steady, if low, readings. He was weak, but there was little hint of imminent danger of another attack. He touched his hand to his chest, assuring himself that the monitoring device was firmly attached to his skin. Then he rose to a sitting position, with great care, and drew on the pyjamas that Kirk had left beside the bed.

He considered. The activity had left him feeling a little lightheaded, but that was not surprising. A small amount of exercise would no doubt help to restore his equilibrium.

He stood up, and pulled on a dressing gown over the pyjamas, then walked unsteadily to the bathroom. Biological necessities taken care of, he went slowly to the front door, and opened it. The rain of yesterday had dissipated, leaving the sky clear and the air fresh. It was perhaps a little cold, but it was pleasant. He slipped a pair of shoes onto his feet and a hat over his head, then stepped down the few stairs that led to the ground, leaning heavily on the handrail as he did so.

He stopped at the bottom to catch his breath. It was ridiculous that walking a few yards and descending three steps had so exhausted him. Ridiculous, but inescapable.

There was a bench by the wall of the house that looked out over the garden and the forest beyond. It was only a few steps away. As it was, he was not sure that he would make it back up the stairs into the house. He moved over to the bench instead, and sank down upon it, trying to steady his breathing and heart rate before it set off the alarm that would bring Kirk racing back to him.

'Are – you all right?'

Spock snapped his eyes open, instinctively pressing a hand to the side of his chest as a spike of adrenaline ran through him, and was suppressed. It was a girl, coming out of the forest, concern on her face. He recognised her immediately as the girl he had seen yesterday standing in the trees, watching him.

'I have seen you before,' he said curiously.

'Oh – yesterday,' she said brightly, coming closer. She was wearing the same bright red coat as she had then, but it was unbuttoned, the hood thrown back.

'Yesterday, yes,' he nodded. 'But – I suspect you have seen _*me_* prior to that.'

'Well,' she said, suddenly looking abashed. 'It's not like there are many houses around here, and it's always interesting when someone new rents this place. Sometimes it means friends, you know. Sometimes just intrigue…'

Spock raised an eyebrow, wondering whether she found the potential for friendship or intrigue with him.

'So – you have been watching me?' he asked.

'Not exactly watching,' she protested with a smile that implied she was assured of forgiveness. 'Just – being interested. You, and that good-looking friend of yours. He goes out all the time, and you stay here. It's – curious, you know? But – you're not well, are you? You don't look well.'

Spock looked up at her. 'No, I am not well,' he said, honestly enough. 'That is why I don't leave the house.'

'You must get lonely…'

Spock regarded her steadily, declining to answer.

'Do you mind if I sit down?' she asked.

He shook his head. Perhaps fraternisation with locals was not advisable, but there seemed to be very little harm in this girl, and it might seem more suspicious to dismiss her without good reason.

'I'm Hana,' she said as she sat.

'Aunar,' Spock said without hesitation. He had already considered the possible necessity of giving a false name.

'Aunar,' she repeated, looking sideways at him. 'You have a startling look of that man – that alien,' she said suddenly. 'What was it? A Vulcanian? The one who committed that horrible murder. His face was all over the news for a month or so.'

Spock did not show a trace of his concern on his face – but he did try to soften his expression to one less suggestive of Vulcan control.

'He was executed, was he not?' he asked casually.

'Yes, very quickly,' she nodded, with a shudder.

Spock turned at that.

'More quickly than usual?' he asked curiously.

'Oh, they always hurry things through when it's extra-planetary,' she shrugged. 'Less chance of interference that way.'

Spock lifted an eyebrow. 'Your people seem extraordinarily chary of interference, considering your desire to enter the United Federation of Planets.'

'Then you're not from Malker?' she asked lightly.

Spock cursed himself inwardly. No matter how hard he controlled, his curiosity always conspired to get the better of him.

'No. I am Rigelian,' he said, shaking his head. The similarities between Rigelians and Vulcans were close enough to stand up to light scrutiny, since his ears were concealed beneath his hat. Better than saying he was Romulan. 'I have been suffering some mild heart trouble recently, which the healers of my planet are having difficulty with. I was told that the Malkerian water had some remarkable tonic effects.'

There. That should be satisfactory. The Rigelians were known for their hypochondriac tendencies, and it was true that the Malkerian water had certain health benefits due to small levels of certain dissolved minerals present in it.

'That's why you're living like a recluse then?' she asked with a smile. 'I wondered why your friend went out so often, and you never did. Is he Rigelian too?'

Spock blinked slowly. This conversation was too dangerous. There were too many questions liable to be asked that would create complications if he answered them truthfully, and still more complications if he lied.

'No, he is not,' he said, his tone not inviting further enquiry.

'Do Rigelians have telepathy, like Vulcanians do?'

Spock suppressed a sigh. Was there to be no end to this girl's curiosity?

'No, they do not,' he said with a shake of his head.

'I'm glad,' she smiled.

Was there something more than the desire for friendship in her eyes? Spock was not good at reading expressions, but there was something in the dilation of her pupils that reminded him of the way Jim had looked at him last night. How odd that was, to garner such a look from his commanding officer, his friend of many years, his perfect, golden…

Spock shook himself. Perhaps this was why Vulcans avoided emotional commitments. They were too distracting. It would only create yet more complications if this girl held some unrequitable desire for him – although it would mean that Jim, at least, would then be safe from her. Jim fell too easily into love – or at least into lust. He did not imagine that Jim's desire for him meant that he would not find women attractive now, any more than it meant that he himself saw any particular gender as closed to his interest.

' – don't like telepaths much,' she was saying, and Spock forced himself to attend to what she was saying, instead of listening to self-induced kindlings of jealousy in his own head. 'Those Ankavites – they're all over the planet, broadcasting whatever's in their heads – and reading what's in yours probably, too.'

Spock snapped his full attention back to what she was saying.

'Ankavites?' he asked curiously.

'Oh, they're a sect – a caste, I suppose. They refuse to have the operation – you know, to shut off the telepathic nerve.' She shuddered. 'Disgusting.'

'Then the Malkerians are naturally telepathic?'

'If you can call it natural.' She shuddered again. 'Almost everyone has the decency to have the operation when they come of age.'

'But the Ankavites do not, and are left telepathic?' he asked.

'Oh, very. Being around one – it's like turning a tap on to their thoughts. It's like a nest of _*neevas_* in their heads. They're dirty, unprincipled, greedy people. _*Horrible_*.'

She shuddered, as if the movement would shake the thought of the Ankavites out of her mind.

Spock sat in silence for a few moments, then pressed a hand to his side, over his heart.

'Hana, would you mind?' he asked, getting to his feet. 'I'm – quite tired. I need to go inside and take a rest.'

'Oh!' she said, springing to her feet herself and looking eagerly toward to the house. 'Do you need anything? I could stay and – '

'No,' Spock said quickly.

Perhaps even Malkerians who had undergone the surgery had some residual telepathy. Spock doubted it would be that easy to totally eradicate telepathic ability without causing some degree of brain damage. At any rate, he had a brief flash of a schoolgirl's fantasy – her sitting beside his bed, attending to him as one would to an invalid. That was the last thing he needed.

'No,' he said more calmly. 'I would – welcome some assistance up the steps, but beyond that I will be fine.'

'All right,' she said, flashing her spontaneous smile at him as she got to her feet.

Spock stood, and took her offered arm. She was stronger than she looked, and her assistance was very welcome in climbing the stairs.

'Thank you,' he said, one hand on the open door, waiting for her to release his arm.

'Oh, it's nothing,' she said quickly, perhaps waiting just a beat longer than necessary before she let go of him. 'May I visit you again, Aunar?'

Spock hesitated, then nodded. He had discovered something useful from the girl today. There was no reason to believe that he would not in the future.

He stepped in through the door, shut it carefully behind him, and went back to his bed, with a renewed gratitude for its soft, warm, boring comfort.

******

'Spock? Spock?'

Spock stirred, feeling a hand resting firmly on his shoulder, and blinked up at Kirk's face. His captain was bending over him, smiling. Looking sideways, he saw a steaming mug on the table beside his bed, and a plate of freshly prepared food.

'I thought you might like some dinner,' Kirk said. 'I got back about an hour ago, but I didn't want to wake you.'

'Were you successful?' Spock asked, sitting up a little.

Kirk gave him a satisfied smile, and put a small computer disc down on the table with a clack.

'Successful,' he nodded. 'I have everything on here that I need to find out exactly who that woman was. I already have her full name and address, and her record at the company, and all I need to trace her further in government records.'

'And were you required to – become intimate?' Spock asked, trying to keep his tone level and normal.

Kirk stroked his fingers lightly over the Vulcan's forehead, then bent to kiss him.

'No, I was not required to become intimate. A goodnight kiss – that was all. So how was your day, Spock?' he asked, deeming it best for both of them to change the subject. 'Did you stayed in bed as ordered?'

Spock deliberately failed to meet the captain's eyes.

'My day was largely uneventful,' he said evasively.

'Ahh,' Kirk nodded, a small smile creeping onto his face. 'And I don't suppose you'd care to explain why, in the course of an uneventful day in bed, you'd need to put on a hat, and a dressing gown, and outdoor shoes, would you?'

Spock's hand shot to his head, touching the knitted fabric of his hat. He had been tired enough when he returned to his bed to get in without removing any of his extra clothing. He must have fallen asleep that way.

He nodded a small nod. 'Yes, Jim. You are quite right. I – went outside briefly. I wanted to test my limits.'

'And I'm guessing you found them, seeing that you got back into bed without even taking your shoes off?' Kirk said disapprovingly.

'I found more than that,' Spock said. 'There is a local girl, Jim – I noticed her watching the house yesterday. I believe she is simply exercising the curiosity of a young woman,' he said quickly, at Kirk's start of alarm. 'She saw me sitting on the bench outside, in some physical distress, and came to see that I was all right. In the course of our conversation I discovered a quite fascinating fact.'

'And what is this fascinating fact?' Kirk asked disapprovingly. 'Apart from discovering that you shouldn't be out of bed, let alone out of doors?'

'Jim, the natives of Malker are naturally telepathic,' Spock said with a note of intrigue in his voice, ignoring the captain's disapproval of his actions. 'Almost everyone elects to undergo a lobotomy at a certain age, thus removing the ability.'

'But some don't,' Kirk extrapolated, his annoyance at the Vulcan's stubbornness forgotten in light of this new information.

Spock nodded soberly.

'Indeed. They are known as Ankavites. I gained the impression that they are far from popular.'

'They're known as _*what,_* Spock?' Kirk asked, his interest suddenly focussed to a sharp point.

'Ankavites,' Spock repeated. 'At least, that is the name that Hana used for them.'

'Spock,' Kirk said intently. 'In that woman's file, the file I managed to access on the computer – it said that she was a – What was it? An – approved Ankavite.'

Spock's eyebrow crept up into the dark strands of his fringe.

'Remarkable,' he said. 'That, Captain, could explain quite a lot…'


	10. Chapter 9

9.

Kirk sat down beside Spock on the edge of his bed. Suddenly all of the effort that both of them had put in to researching and investigating seemed to have coalesced into something worthwhile. The discovery of a person with telepathic ability involved in a crime about which Spock's mind seemed confused, at best, was like opening a door from a darkened room into a vista filled with sunlight. Possibilities were unfolding like new leaves in spring.

'Feel up to drinking your coffee?' Kirk asked the Vulcan. Spock was looking pale and tired even from these few minutes of discussion, but discussion was imperative. 'I put sugar in – I thought it might give you some more energy.'

Spock nodded, sitting up against his pillows and taking the mug that Kirk held out to him. It was rare that he drank coffee with sugar in it, but the strong, sweet liquid was very welcome to counter the exhaustion that he had brought upon himself.

'What was it that this girl said about Ankavites, then?' Kirk asked. 'Can you remember?'

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'Of course, Jim. She was quite vehement in her dislike of them. She said _*they're a sect – a caste... They refuse to have the operation to shut off the telepathic nerve. Almost everyone has the decency to have the operation when they come of age._*'

'And she thought that was – wrong?' Kirk asked, intrigued.

'The Malkerians have shown themselves to be extremely attached to order and predictability,' Spock pointed out. 'It is perhaps not surprising that they would disapprove of as uncontrollable an ability as telepathy.'

'And this girl thought not having the operation was indecent?' Kirk asked him.

Spock's brows came together as he recalled the conversation.

'She said, _*Being around one is like turning a tap on to their thoughts. They're dirty, unprincipled, greedy people_.*'

'That doesn't fit what people seem to think of this woman at the Halbank Company,' Kirk mused, rubbing his thumb over his lip as he considered what Spock had said. 'I don't get the feeling that they _*liked_* her, _per se_, but they weren't disgusted by her…'

'You said that she was listed as an _*approved Ankavite,_* Jim,' Spock pointed out. 'I gained no sense of approval in the description that Hana gave.'

'We need to find out what that means,' Kirk murmured.

'Do you believe that it was generally known, or was it confidential information?'

Kirk turned to the computer that he had left beside Spock's bed and turned it on, slipping the disc into the slot.

'Here,' he said, accessing the relevant part of the information and pointing a finger at the screen. 'It's in her confidential file. _*Not to be disclosed_,*' he read in a low tone. 'It's in a section containing all of her medical details, criminal history – all of those kind of things.'

'Does she have a criminal record?' Spock asked, turning his head to try to see the screen.

Kirk shook his head. 'No. That section's empty. A brief bout of some infectious disease, and _*approved Ankavite._* That seems to be the limit of her secrets.'

'Does it mention family?' Spock asked, as if he had suddenly remembered something important. 'You said before that she was rumoured to be related to a government minister…'

Kirk scrolled through the information, murmuring, 'Malis Arkania, age, twenty-seven. Family… Unmarried, no children… But – ' He turned to Spock with a smile of realisation breaking over his face. 'She's the niece of a Malkerian government aide, Spock. She's mentioned as a possible security threat, because she's an approved Ankavite.'

'And the aide's name?' Spock asked, although he suspected that he knew the answer.

'Achevian Sendar,' Kirk said triumphantly. 'The same man that sent Bones and me to that bar, and sent you down that alley.'

'Indeed,' Spock said slowly, one eyebrow rising. 'Jim, I think it would be beneficial to arrange a meeting with this woman. Where is her residence?'

'It's a town called Andaen.' Kirk said promptly. 'It's– oh – about fifty miles to the west of here. And she lives alone, as far as I can tell.'

'Then it will take only a few minutes in the aircar. We could be there within – '

'Hang on,' Kirk said quickly, his eyes shooting to the Vulcan's face. '_*We?_* What we? Do you realise what'll happen if she finds out you're alive? Besides, you weren't even fit to walk down the front steps. You're not up to this kind of stress.'

'Stress, Captain?' Spock asked archly. 'I am a Vulcan.'

'Physical stress, and emotional stress,' Kirk said firmly. 'The woman is implicated in framing you for murder – for exposing you to the death penalty. You can't tell me that there would be no emotions involved in a meeting like that.'

Spock seemed to be gazing inward.

'My emotions are under my own control,' he said.

'You must have been terrified,' Kirk murmured, casting his mind back to the image of Spock at his last meeting with him before the failed execution. 'Alone…'

'I was not alone,' Spock said with great practicality, immediately understanding what Kirk was referring to. 'And I sensed – a certain amount of sympathy from the executioner, at least. It was the time before that…'

He trailed off, as if he had said too much, turning his head to gaze at the blank wall at the edge of the bed.

'Spock – were they – ' Kirk began hesitantly. He did not want to broach this subject, but the question had to be asked. He touched his hand to Spock's shoulder, and said earnestly, 'Spock, did anyone – do anything to you in that prison?'

Spock turned back to fix his dark eyes on Kirk's face.

'Do anything, Jim?' he asked curiously, then as if suddenly realising what the captain might mean he shook his head quickly. 'No, Jim. Nothing like that. Nothing was done at all…'

'You were lonely,' Kirk intuited, watching his face closely, reading the unspoken behind his words.

'I was – very much alone,' Spock said in a quiet voice. 'I was in solitary confinement. I was confined almost permanently to my cell. There was very little intercourse between myself and any of the prison staff. I was given very little information and understood very little about what had happened to me.'

'Spock, can I – ?' Kirk began, reaching out his hand towards the Vulcan – then suddenly snatching it back, and shaking his head. 'No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked…'

'You have not asked me anything,' Spock reminded him. 'Jim – do you wish to touch my thoughts?' he asked intuitively.

'I – guess I wanted to share your experience – to know what you went through,' Kirk said awkwardly. 'But there's no reason you'd want to share that…'

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'With you, Jim, there is every reason,' he said softly. 'You are not a stranger. You are not an acquaintance. You are the closest person to me at this time. If you are willing to expose yourself to what may seem an unpleasant memory, then you are quite welcome to share that memory.'

'Is it unpleasant to you?'

Spock looked away evasively.

'They are memories that I have had to examine closely, and deal with,' he said. 'It causes no pain to re-examine them.'

'Well,' Kirk said slowly. 'Then – I'd like to know. I'd like to be part of what you went through.'

Spock nodded solemnly, and touched his hand to the mattress beside himself.

'Be with me,' he said. 'It will be easier.'

Jim smiled, bending to take his shoes off before slipping into the bed, fully clothed, and laying himself alongside the Vulcan's hot body. Human and carnal as he was, he was unable to stop himself taking in the Vulcan's scent in a deep breath as he came close to him.

No such carnality distracted Spock. Concentrating on nothing but the meld, Spock raised his hand cautiously towards Kirk's face. At Kirk's slight nod his fingers touched, and Jim was suddenly surrounded by the sensation of living and breathing in two different consciousnesses simultaneously. There were no preliminary words or phrases to start the meld – just the hot touch of Spock's fingers, and an opening into another life.

Thoughts and memories teased at his mind, seeming to come close but then darting away before he could touch them. Spock was willing to share, but he was also enormously controlled, and fully capable of keeping the total sum of his knowledge and memory from overwhelming the captain. Then one of the thoughts came closer, drifting towards Jim's consciousness like a leaf on a pond. He reached out toward it. Spock seemed to be proffering it to him, as if to keep him back from falling into something deeper.

He fell into a scene of complete unfamiliarity, looking through eyes that were not his…

_He sat on a sleek metal chair, with his hands spread before him on a dull grey table. The chair felt chilled and hard beneath him, just as the table felt to his hands. There was nothing on the table, and he was not so much looking at the surface, as through it._

_He was, again, confused. He had felt confused for five weeks. His thoughts were surprisingly clear and logical, but he could not understand the memories in his head, and the results that had come from those events in his memories._

_He had been in this small, bare cell for twenty-one days, after being transferred from the cramped, unclean cell in the local justice station. He had stared at the walls and ceiling until he knew them intimately. He had studied his thoughts until he knew them intimately. He was no closer to understanding exactly what had happened to put him here. There was the woman, dead, and guilt in his mind, and little else…_

Spock carefully suppressed his personal feelings for now. In his mind, he let Kirk be aware of the cell around him…

_The front of the cell, composed of vertical metal bars. Beyond it there was a corridor, and a blank wall. Guards passed sometimes, and gave him brief, disinterested glances. A man in a grey suit passed by, and stared at him with hard eyes, and sometimes a woman with him who came to the door and…_

That thought faded away, and was replaced with mundane observation again.

_Inside the cell the place was humane enough for an individual awaiting execution. There was a bed with pillow, sheet, and extra blankets in deference to his higher body temperature. There was a shining metal toilet and basin behind a waist-high screen. There was the chair, and the slim table affixed to the wall, and a book in a language he could not read on an otherwise bare shelf on the wall. Presumably it was some kind of religious text, there to give comfort to prisoners in their final days, but the symbols on the pages were incomprehensible._

In his mind, Spock allowed his attention to drift back to the table, just as he had on that day that he had chosen to show to Jim. The striations in the metal provided him with some interest as he tried to work out of exactly what amalgam of metals the table was fashioned, and what the melting temperature and cooling speed had been to produce the smooth, undentable surface.

_He was not allowed out of the cell now the trial was over, and he was allowed very little communication with the prison guards. That was to be expected, since he was being held for no other purpose than his impending execution. He spent every day largely in silence, examining his thoughts. He ate and he slept at regular intervals. The rest of the time, assured of the finality of his sentence, he spent in meditation, reconciling himself to the fate it was certain he would suffer. And he was lonely…_

The certainty of that fact crashed over Kirk like a wave. He wanted to sob the uncontrollable tears that Spock could not release. He was alone, and bewildered, and without help. There was no abuse from the guards, no abuse from other prisoners – there was simply – nothing…

Spock's hand fell from Jim's face, and the clarity of contact faded away, leaving Kirk with nothing more than a dim residual awareness of the Vulcan's thoughts and feelings. There was no need to show Jim his thoughts as the execution had drawn closer. It would only upset him further.

'Ah, Spock,' Jim murmured, nestling closer to the Vulcan's warm body. 'I'm sorry.'

'I am alive,' Spock said quietly. 'And I am no longer incarcerated. The outcome has been more than satisfactory so far.'

He wrapped his arms around Jim's lithe body, cradling him against the emotional release that the meld had provoked. Odd that *_he* _was comforting Jim because of his own emotions. Melds often worked that way, though. Humans found it difficult to separate the thoughts and feelings of each mind. Jim, no doubt, as an emotional being, had a fair amount of his own emotions to deal with now, intermingling with Spock's own.

'All will be well,' he murmured into Jim's hair. 'We are working to that end. We will locate that woman, and extract the information that we need from her – by whatever means necessary.'

******

It was the comm unit beeping that woke Spock. He blinked sleep from his eyes, realising that Jim was asleep next to him, his dark eyelashes shadowing his skin and his face slightly flushed with the warmth of slumber.

Spock slipped out of bed with great care, aware that Jim had probably spent a large amount of the previous night awake, worrying about him. There was no sense in waking him now. He carefully turned the comm screen away from the bed then sat down in front of it and pressed the button.

'What are you doing out of bed?' McCoy said in an accusatory tone, the instant that the screen came to life. 'I called to ask _*Jim_* for your next set of readings. I didn't expect to see you sitting up…'

'The captain is asleep,' Spock said in a level tone, but he could not help his eyes drifting briefly to the bed behind the screen, and saw the split-second reaction in McCoy's face as he understood why Spock was distracted.

A moment of awkward silence ensued…

'All right,' McCoy said finally, in a tone rough with awkward embarrassment. 'I know it, and you know I know it – so let's never, _*ever_* discuss this unless there's some pressing medical reason to do so!'

Spock stared stoically at the screen for a moment, before saying, 'What are your conclusions from my latest readings, Doctor?'

Relief washed over the doctor's face, and he turned to a sheaf of read-outs.

'You had a stint of unwarranted activity earlier in the day,' he said pointedly.

'You cannot know whether or not the activity was unwarranted,' Spock pointed out coolly.

McCoy scowled at him. '_*Any_* activity is unwarranted in your condition – and some more than others.'

Spock sighed. 'I stepped outside for a few moments. That is all. You have often mentioned the restorative properties of fresh air.'

'Hmm,' McCoy said. 'Well, apart from that, you seem to be steadily improving, with that green-blooded knack you have for ignoring all medical predictions and going it your own way.'

Spock nodded, ignoring the insult that packaged the medical assessment.

'When may I resume normal activities?' he asked.

McCoy appeared to choke for a moment, before he recovered himself, and said, 'By normal activities, you mean…?'

Spock's eyebrow rose.

'By normal activities I mean walking up and down stairs. Taking my meals at the table instead of in bed. Venturing out of doors without risking collapse. What is your definition of normal activities, Dr McCoy?'

'Oh – just that,' McCoy answered, a little too quickly. 'Exactly that.'

'More pointedly, Doctor – when may I leave the house for a short journey to meet with someone?'

'To meet with someone?' McCoy asked, suddenly intrigued. 'You mean you've actually got somewhere? You're making progress?'

'Slowly but steadily,' Spock nodded. 'I require the opportunity to meet with a person who may actually be guilty of this murder. The captain will oppose my intention to meet her, but I believe my presence to be vital. In your medical opinion, when may I do so?'

'Hmmm,' the doctor considered, looking at the readings again. 'It could be stressful… Maybe Jim's right. It could be best for him to go alone…'

'I am Vulcan,' Spock said. 'I am quite capable of controlling myself.'

The look that McCoy gave him spoke volumes about his opinion on Spock's Vulcan control, especially in light of what had provoked the heart attack.

'Doctor,' Spock prompted him.

McCoy sighed, his eyes flicking between the readings and Spock's face.

'I don't like letting you get up so soon. Why is it so vital for _*you_* to be there?' he pressed. 'Can't Jim ask the same questions and get the same answers?'

'There is a very high likelihood that the woman is a telepath,' Spock said steadily. 'If this is true, I believe it to be quite vital for a person with similar telepathic skills to be present at the interview. If she could persuade me that I was guilty of murder, then what thoughts could she implant in Jim's mind, unskilled as he is at blocking mental impulses?'

'You think that's what she did?' the doctor asked in a fascinated tone. 'She – brainwashed you somehow?'

Spock shook his head.

'Brainwashed is a crude term. I cannot be sure whether she implanted thoughts in my mind to make me believe that I had committed the murder, or whether she is powerful enough to deceive me into actually committing it. That is one of the reasons why I must meet with her, face to face. That is the only way to tell the extent of her powers – and to protect Jim from becoming prey to them himself.'

'But what's going to stop her from just brainwashing you again?'

Spock closed his eyes briefly at the doctor's persistent use of the imprecise term.

'Forewarning, Doctor,' he said. 'Previously I had no idea that telepathic ability existed on Malker, nor that it would be used to implicate me in murder. This time I will be prepared. I will guard very carefully against any telepathic assault, either on me or Jim. Were he to go alone – as he surely will if you forbid me to accompany him – I would have very real fears for his return.'

McCoy shook his head with a sigh.

'How do you feel?' he asked. 'Honestly, and remembering that your readings are filtering through to me all the time.'

Spock's eyebrow lifted. 'Doctor, you give me the distinct impression that you do not trust me.'

'To tell the truth about your medical condition? Hell no,' McCoy said, shaking his head. 'Now tell me, how do you feel?'

Spock exhaled slowly. 'I feel – tired, and weak,' he said. 'I seem to have very little energy. But I do not feel incapable of a small amount of exertion. I have every intention of being careful.'

McCoy nodded, glancing over the latest feed of readings.

'At a push, knowing that you're stubborn enough to just go anyway if I say you can't – then tomorrow - _*provided_,*' he said firmly, 'you do nothing more than step up into the aircar at one end, and step out and sit down at the other. But I want to see your readings just before you leave, and I want you to accept that if I say you can't go, you _*don't_* go, because your stubbornness could kill you at the moment, and there's no logic in dying for this.'

'None indeed,' Spock said gravely.

He had already died once – or at least, believed himself to be dying. He had no intention of dying again in the fight to prove his innocence.

******

Kirk jerked out of sleep so fast that for a moment he had no idea where he was. He was trembling, flushed with hotness, grasping about wildly before he started to regain control. He saw Spock lying beside him, staring at him anxiously, his lips parted as if he was about to speak.

'Shit, Spock,' he gasped. 'Shit – '

'Jim?' Spock asked with deep concern. It was unlike the captain to swear, especially in front of him. 'Jim, I believe you've had a nightmare,' he said in a reassuring tone, reaching a hand out to touch his forehead. 'You are warm. It's easy for a human to become overheated, sleeping next to someone of my temperature – especially after the disturbance of a meld.'

'Meld…' Kirk faltered, staring at Spock wildly. 'The meld, Spock! That woman…'

'Jim, try to calm yourself.' Spock said softly. 'There is no woman.'

'Like hell there isn't!' Kirk said vehemently, rubbing his hands over his eyes. 'Spock, in the meld – that woman. Don't you remember?'

Spock shook his head slowly.

'There was no woman,' he said confidently. 'Only the guards.'

'No,' Kirk insisted. 'Malis Arkania – the woman who caught you in the alley. She was _*there,_* in your head. She'd walk down the corridor with a man – Sendar! With Achevian Sendar! And she would come forward to the bars, and put her hand on the lock, and – '

` 'And what, Jim?' Spock asked curiously. 'I have no conscious memory of the woman.'

'And – nothing,' Kirk shrugged. 'She put her hand on the lock, and it all faded, as if someone had forgotten to finish the plot… But – in my dream – '

Spock's eyes narrowed. The mind was a strange organ – even Vulcans admitted that there were facets of it that they did not understand.

'What happened in your dream, Jim?' he asked.

Kirk shook his head. 'It was just a dream, Spock – a nightmare. It didn't have any meaning. It wasn't something I saw during the meld.'

'Jim,' Spock said in a low voice. 'It is quite possible for information to be passed between our minds of which we are both unaware. If someone hands you a bag, and there is an apple within the bag, hidden amongst all the other contents – whether or not either of you were aware of that apple, you still have that apple.'

'Spock,' Kirk said flatly. 'Are you saying that you gave me an apple without my knowing?'

Spock almost allowed himself to smile.

'I am saying, Jim, that a meld is rarely a logical, ordered process, even if you perceive it as such.'

'Like a dream that makes sense when you're dreaming it, and makes no sense at all when you wake up,' Kirk murmured.

'Precisely,' Spock nodded. 'It is entirely possible that your mind received a memory of which I was unaware, and of which you were unaware until it was released in a dream. Now – is it possible for you to tell me what occurred in your dream?'

Kirk closed his eyes, turning until he was lying flat in the bed again.

'I was you…' he said slowly. 'I was you, and I was sitting in that cell, at that table. And I looked up, and I saw that woman coming down the corridor, walking with Achevian Sendar. And he said …' His forehead creased as he tried to remember. 'He said, _*you're sure you'll be safe this time?_*, and she held up a – I don't know – some kind of stun-gun, I think, and said, _*I have this. He won't be able to do anything._* She looked through the bars, and said, _*Stand against the wall. You know the procedure._* So I – you – got up and stood against the wall. I was – afraid, but – I couldn't remember why… And she – cuffed my hands behind my back, through the bed frame. It was uncomfortable, and she laughed at my discomfort… And then she – '

Kirk visibly winced, his face paling.

'Jim?' Spock asked. 'What did she do then?'

'I – don't know, Spock,' he said, his eyes opening. 'It was – like she was reaching into my mind with – a hook, or a whirling blade, or – I don't know. She mixed up my thoughts, and – I don't know what she was doing. I just know it was – horrible.' He stared at Spock. 'It was really horrible, Spock – and it was _*your_* mind she was doing it to… Your thoughts…'

Spock closed his eyes briefly.

'I have no conscious memory of such an event,' he admitted. He touched a hand to Kirk's face. 'I am sorry, Jim, that the memories were made to surface in _*your_* mind. I did not mean to cause you pain.'

'It was her, in your mind again, making you forget,' Kirk said slowly, staring at him. 'Her, messing with your thoughts, making you think you were guilty when all along…'

'Jim,' Spock said steadily. 'It is imperative that we go see this woman. Dr McCoy has given me permission to come with you, as long as my readings continue to improve. You cannot go alone. You would have no protection whatsoever against her mental assault. You _*will_* allow me to come.'

Kirk smiled. 'Trying a little brainwashing of your own, Spock?' he asked. At Spock's look of puzzled concern he said, 'Never mind. I never could refuse you when you were determined to do something, Spock. How do you think we ending up kissing that first night? You're the one who made the move on me, you know?'

'Did I, Jim?' Spock asked, humour glinting in his eyes. 'I really don't remember…'

'Here,' Kirk said with a smile, turning over onto his side and cupping a hand behind Spock's head. 'Let me jog your memory. It happened like this…'


	11. Chapter 10

10.

Even with all the facts at their disposal, Spock could not help some degree of nervousness as he climbed into the aircar. The heart attack, he had to admit, had unnerved him. Although he knew precisely why it had occurred, and was doing everything possible to prevent it happening again, the sense of such fragility in his biological state was disturbing. He was used to perfect health, strength and fitness, rather than a body that felt ready to betray him at any moment. The idea of confronting a woman who had, by all accounts, committed murder and then used her telepathy to deceive Spock into believing that _*he*_ had committed the crime, all while he was suffering from a near-fatal heart condition, was daunting, to say the least.

Jim's hand was firm on his arm as he got into his seat, giving him just the amount of assistance needed in his reduced state. He was grateful for Jim's presence, but he didn't want to need that help.

'Thank you, Jim,' he said as he sat, turning a warm gaze on the captain.

Jim smiled, but he could not disguise a certain amount of anxiety in his eyes. He tightened his grip momentarily on Spock's arm, then shut the door, and came round to the driver's side.

'You're going to be okay, aren't you, Spock?' he asked in a low voice as he got into his seat. 'It's just sitting in the aircar, there and back…'

'And the intervening time with Malis Arkania,' Spock nodded, trying to keep apprehension from his voice.

'And that,' Kirk nodded. 'Spock, whatever happens, I want you to stay calm. Do you understand?'

Spock regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

'I always endeavour to stay calm,' he reminded him.

'Physically, not just mentally,' Kirk expanded. 'We both have weapons. If anything sets off, just stay still. Let me do the fighting, if fighting is necessary.'

Spock let a hint of a smile come onto his face.

'Jim, I have absolutely no intention of provoking another heart attack,' he said seriously. 'McCoy has judged me fit enough for this outing.'

'Provided you don't exert yourself.'

Spock sighed.

'Jim,' he said. 'I will exert myself as little as possible. But if you do not drive, we will never get anywhere.'

Kirk looked sideways at him with a sparkle in his eyes.

'All right,' he said, firing up the engines. 'I'll drive. But as for you – there isn't anything you need to do. Just – relax, and rest. That's an order.'

Spock glanced briefly at his captain. For some reason, perhaps some hidden facet of his human half, he found it oddly stimulating when Kirk gave him an order since the development of the sexual relationship between them. He found himself wishing for Jim to order him more and more.

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He had been ordered to rest, and the best way to protect himself from Malis Arkania's mental intrusion would be to relax his mind as fully as possible before he was required to defend it from her. He would take this opportunity to do something he rarely did. He let himself begin to daydream. He saw Jim, standing under the glistening water of a shower, the droplets catching the light as they rolled down his golden skin. He saw him lathering up soap in his hands, and beginning to spread it languidly over his body, each circle of his hands getting ever closer to the soft parcel between his legs…

******

'Spock, are you asleep?' Kirk asked from beside the Vulcan.

Spock stirred himself, blinking as he opened his eyes to the light.

'No, Jim,' he said, feeling a flush beginning at the tips of his ears. 'I was merely – contemplating.'

'Contemplating?' Kirk echoed. 'Spock, you were downright grinning – at least, grinning in your terms…'

'Ah,' Spock said slowly. 'Well, I was – contemplating a pleasing subject.'

'What subject could be so damn pleasing?'

Spock looked directly at him. 'You, Jim.'

'Ah,' Kirk said slowly, as if he completely understood and sympathised with the Vulcan's distraction. The sparkle in his eyes told Spock that he was attempting humour. 'Well then, I can't really blame you for being away with the fairies, now, can I?'

'I can assure you, there were no supernatural beings involved,' Spock promised.

Kirk's eyes tracked down to the Vulcan's lap, to the distinct bulge under the fabric of his trousers, and he smiled.

'If I ever saw an incentive to get you off this planet and back to full health, there it is,' he grinned. 'We're about two minutes out, Spock. Maybe you should focus on grannies' shoes for a while.'

'Grannies' shoes, Jim?' Spock echoed, staring at him curiously.

'Anything to keep your mind off sex,' Kirk said plainly with a grin.

Spock's eyebrow rose. 'I think the situation that we are about to enter will be sufficient for keeping my mind off sex,' he promised. 'I was hoping that a state of relaxation and a focus on a vastly unrelated subject may protect my mind somewhat against Ms Arkania's abilities.'

'You're expecting an attack?' Kirk asked seriously.

'Is it not what you would do?' Spock asked, looking sideways at him. 'It is both logical and likely that the only weapon the woman will have will be the power of her mind. She is not expecting your visit. She is certainly not expecting mine. I am hoping that the element of surprise will give me the upper hand, mentally.'

Kirk released the controls briefly to put his hand firmly on Spock's.

'I hope so too,' he said seriously. 'For both our sakes.'

******

Kirk stepped out of the aircar first. Malis Arkania's home, like their rented one, was set in deep forest and surrounded by a small area of cleared land. They had no choice but to land in full view of the building. The captain took a few steps away from the aircar, his phaser held ready in his right hand, before nodding his head briefly.

Spock opened his own door, and stepped out onto the hard earth.

'You're all right?' Kirk asked, glancing briefly back at him.

Spock nodded. 'Quite fine, Captain.'

There was no denying the weakness in the Vulcan's stride, or the pallor of his face, but he moved determinedly after his captain towards the house door.

'Take it easy, Spock,' Kirk muttered, turning a little to wait for him.

Spock gave his captain an indulgent look.

'I think that you are more concerned than I am,' he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. He nodded towards the door. 'Shall we? Presuming of course that the lady is in.'

Kirk uttered a short laugh.

'That'd be just our luck, wouldn't it?'

He exchanged a look with the Vulcan, then lifted his hand to the door chime, and pressed it resolutely. They waited for only a few moments before the door swung open before them.

The woman that stood there was obviously unprepared for visitors. She was dressed in casual clothing, and her hair was loose and unbrushed. In one hand she held some kind of snack item. But it was immediately obvious to both Kirk and Spock that this was the woman that they sought. Her eyes rested first on Kirk, with apparent non-recognition – but then they tracked to the phaser in Kirk's hand, and then to Spock's face, and she took a step backwards, the colour draining from her cheeks.

'You – ' Her voice faltered for a moment, and then she said in a tone of bewildered curiosity, 'You were executed, and laid out in the prisoner's graveyard. You are supposed to be dead.'

'I did not die,' Spock said simply.

Her gaze flicked from one man to the other, her eyes narrowing.

'It's a trick… A Federation trick. All Vulcans look alike.'

'Indeed they do not,' Spock said in a hard voice. 'There is a considerable genetic pool from which the Vulcan people are made up.'

'Who are you?' she asked slowly.

'I am Spock,' Spock said ruthlessly, taking a step forward. 'I am the person that you implicated in a murder that you yourself committed.'

The woman reacted in a flash. She kicked out at Kirk, knocking his phaser out of his hand. Then she turned her eyes to Spock again. Instantly Spock's face went white, and he dropped to his knees with a thud, his eyes glazed. The sinews in his neck seemed to have transformed to iron ropes that were being twisted tighter and tighter. His hand was clawing uselessly at his temple as if he could physically remove something that was clinging there.

'Get – her – out – of – my – mind,' he grated out through clenched teeth.

Kirk stared between them, his mind working. There was no way he could get to his phaser. He put his hand into his pocket, bringing out a hypo of sedative that he had kept close to hand in case Spock needed to slow his heart rate fast. He could knock out the woman with one dose – but it was Spock whose heart was racing, and whose face was taking on an unhealthy flush. He made his decision, and brought the hypo down directly onto Spock's neck.

The Vulcan's eyes widened for a moment, and then he slumped. His breathing became slow and regular, and the green flush began to die away from his cheeks.

Satisfied that Spock was safe, at least for now, Kirk turned his attention on the woman, who seemed dazed by the sudden unconsciousness of the mind that she was attacking. He grasped her arm and twisted it behind her back in a painful lock. Then he dragged his phaser closer to himself with his foot, and picked it up in his free hand. This was not how he had planned events, but getting Spock back to better medical care was the most important thing at this time.

'Right,' he said through gritted teeth, letting go of the woman's arm and taking a few steps away from her. He pointed the weapon steadily at her chest. 'Into the car.'

She stared at him malevolently for a moment. Kirk took that as the stimulus he needed, and stunned her. He had been going to stun her once she was in the aircar anyway, but the sense of satisfaction from doing it this way was far greater. He manoeuvred her into the vehicle, setting her slumped on the back seats, and knelt over her to tie her hands and feet with ruthlessly tight knots. Then he left her, grabbed the medical kit he had brought, and ran back to Spock.

The Vulcan lay unmoving, just as he had fallen when Kirk had sedated him.

'Spock, goddammit, you'd better be all right,' he said in a low voice, stroking a hand over the Vulcan's temple and cheek.

Then he pushed aside emotion, taking a scanner and tricorder from the medical kit and taking a careful account of the Vulcan's body readings. There was no way to contact McCoy from here, but the readings were within acceptable limits, at least. He swiftly gave the Vulcan a dose of a medicine that would help to steady his heartbeat closer to normal, and then lifted him in his arms and carried him to the car.

'Don't worry,' he murmured, as he carefully lowered the Vulcan into his seat and strapped him in, heedless of the fact that Spock could not hear him. 'We'll get you home. You'll be fine, Spock.'

He seated himself beside the Vulcan, letting the realisation float into his mind that before all this had happened he would have hefted Spock in a fireman's lift over his shoulder to carry him to the aircar. This time he had held him in his arms like a sleeping child, and he had felt half the weight that he normally did.

He smiled as the aircar rose off the ground.

'Must be love,' he murmured.

As the aircar turned its back on the house and began to gain altitude, the front door opened again, and a girl stepped out, staring fixedly at the clear identification numbers on the craft's stern.

'Malis?' she called anxiously. 'Are you out there?'

She stood looking for a few moments longer, then turned back into the house swiftly. A minute later she emerged again, clutching the keys to another aircar, and shouldering herself into a bright red coat.

******

_ Spock sat in his sterile cell again, staring at the sterile surface of the table again. He was waiting for death again, alone again, silently afraid again._

_ Behind him, somewhere that he could not see and could not reach, a woman's fingers were clawing into his mind, squeezing at his control, tearing strips in his thoughts. Blood was seeping through his mind, pushing through the backs of his eyes. Suddenly he could see nothing – and then he could see nothing but that other woman's body – that defenceless vagrant slumped against the wall, becoming more and more disfigured as she was beaten to death by his own hands._

_ His hands were covered in blood. His body was spattered with blood. He could not tell whether it was hers or his._

_ And he was staring at the table again, alone again… He was guilty. He was guilty._

_ The fingers in his mind clawed deeper, making him shudder with pain…_

_ He reached for control. He could not find it. He grasped at it with his hands, but his hands were slippery with blood. Her blood. All he could see was her blood. His fault. His deed. His hands slamming into soft flesh and splintering bone._

_ He was staring at the table, awaiting death. He was lying on a wheeled bed, strapped down, watching lights in the ceiling pass above him as he was taken to the room. He was feeling the poison burning through his veins, sickening his stomach, freezing his lungs…_

_ And he was in his cell again, staring at the table again, alone again…_

******

It took longer for the strong sedative to release Spock than it did for Malis Arkania to come round from the stun. Kirk had carried the woman up to the small laundry room and left her on the floor in there, still tied hand and foot, and behind a firmly locked door. In contrast he laid Spock carefully in his bed and covered him warmly, trying to make him seem comfortable even if it was obvious that he was far from calm.

As the sedative loosened its grip on him, Spock was becoming more agitated, but apparently no more awake. He seemed to be locked in a nightmare. Even unconscious, his face was contorted in a grimace. He writhed suddenly, his hands moving to his temples, unconstrained whimpers of pain being forced from his lips. It was obviously no coincidence that upstairs a fierce banging had begun from the laundry room. Malis Arkania was evidently far more awake than Spock, and with her increase in awareness came Spock's drastic increase in distress.

Kirk strode upstairs with a pent-up fury driving him. He had been a starship captain long enough to know how to control his temper, but he had never had quite as much difficulty in doing so before.

He opened the door, phaser in hand, to see the woman sitting with her back against the laundry machine, having obviously been kicking at the door with her tied feet.

'What are you doing to Spock?' Kirk asked fiercely, without preamble. 'What in hell are you doing?'

The woman turned his face upwards to stare at him. Her hair was tussled and her face flushed from her efforts at escape from her bonds, but she seemed completely calm now.

'That's between my mind and his,' she said. 'I've had plenty of practice in influencing his mind. If you want me to let him go, then I suggest that you let _*me_* go.'

Kirk almost snarled his fury at her – but instead he simply readjusted his grip on the phaser, taking a calming breath. At least, he reasoned, whatever she was doing she seemed to have no ability to influence _*him_* too, otherwise he had no doubt that he would be kneeling on the floor right now releasing her from her bonds.

'I've got a lot of questions to ask you before I even _*think_* of letting you go,' he promised.

'You made a mistake in bringing me here,' she said smoothly, with no hint of distress. No hint that part of her mind was set apart for tormenting Spock in the most vicious ways she knew how.

'You killed a woman,' Kirk said in a dark tone. 'You killed a woman, and you near-as-dammit killed Spock too. Now, I want to know _*why_*.'

'How is he alive?' she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. 'I watched him die.'

Kirk's flinch at that was minute, but she noticed it.

'Do you want to know what that was like?' she asked him. 'How he was strapped to a table and wheeled in, with his neck bared for the injection? How he lay there with fear in his eyes? How he struggled and writhed when the drugs touched his blood, and cried out, and his lungs choked, and – '

From downstairs Kirk heard Spock give a strangled, incoherent cry, and the woman's eyes glinted with pleasure. There was a split second where Kirk had to wrestle with every ounce of control in his body to keep from hitting her. Instead, he let loose another burst of phaser fire, and watched her slump again into unconsciousness. There was a limit to how often he could stun her, but for now, at least, it seemed the best option to protect Spock's mind, at least to some degree. And it gave him a good deal of satisfaction to see her self-satisfied face slump into lolling insensibility.

Kirk slammed the door and locked it, and went back to Spock.

The Vulcan was writhing in his bed, his eyes tightly shut, his lips no more than a pencil line. Another moan escaped him. The captain scanned him, and saw his heart rate rising again, the beat growing increasingly erratic.

Jim sighed, and released another dose of sedative into the Vulcan's arm. If Spock would not wake when he was not sedated, or manage to regain control of his mind, then his only option was to remain drugged. It seemed to be the only way to keep his heart rate even slightly within safe margins.

Kirk made up his mind almost without realising it. He turned the comm system to face him, and opened a channel to the _Enterprise_.

'Captain Kirk to Commander Scott,' he said urgently, toggling the button uselessly in his hand as the signal pulsed through the reaches of space. 'Kirk to Scott. Come on…'

There was a moment of static, and then Uhura's surprised voice said, 'Captain Kirk! I'm just putting you through now.'

Another brief moment of silence, and Scott's reassuringly solid voice said, 'Captain Kirk. It's good to hear from you, sir.'

'Never mind that now,' Kirk said swiftly. 'Scotty, if you divert to Malker now, how soon can you be in orbit?'

'Malker, sir?' Scott echoed. 'But, Captain – '

'Mr Scott, I am on Malker,' he snapped. 'I am in urgent need of transport. It's a medical emergency. How soon can you be here?'

'At top warp, eighteen hours, sir,' Scott said in a bewildered tone. 'Captain, are ye hurt?'

'Not me. Spock,' Kirk said shortly.

There was a long, faltering silence. Then Scott said in an abnormally gentle tone, 'Captain, you know that Mr Spock is dead…'

Kirk flicked the viewscreen on with one finger and turned it towards Spock's bed. The time for secrecy had passed. Spock's life was as much in danger now as it had been in that Malkerian prison.

'Mr Scott, is your screen turned on?' he asked briskly.

'Aye,' Scott said in a slow, marvelling voice. Kirk could see him now, leaning towards his own viewscreen, obviously amazed by what he could see. 'Captain – '

'Will you divert the ship, Scotty?' Kirk asked, more gently now.

'Aye, of course,' Scott said slowly. 'I've no doubt we could make it in sixteen hours if we try hard. Just gie me one second, sir.'

The channel went silent for a few moments, then Scott's face appeared again on the screen.

'We're underway, sir. I've no doubt there'll be a hopping mad bunch of diplomats on Kalin 7 when we miss our rendezvous, but we'll be with you in sixteen hours.'

'Thank you, Mr Scott,' Kirk said, relief suffusing his voice. 'I don't have to tell you about the confidentiality of this mission, do I?'

'Not at all, sir,' Scott said, still sounding distracted by wonder. 'Why, if the Federation authorities knew… But, Captain, how is it that he's still alive?'

Kirk shook his head. 'McCoy will explain it all to you, Scotty. He's known since before I left on this leave. It's _*why_* I left on this leave. But for now, will you patch me through to the doc? I need to talk to him about Spock.'

'Aye, sir,' Scott nodded instantly. 'Right away.'

There was only half a second between Scott's face disappearing from the viewscreen, and it being replaced with McCoy's.

'Jim, what is it?' McCoy asked instantly, looking about himself in an obvious attempt to see if anyone was able to overhear. 'Listen, let me go to my office – '

Kirk waved a hand impatiently.

'That doesn't matter now, Bones. Scotty knows. He's diverting the ship here.'

'Is Spock okay?' McCoy asked urgently.

'I'm transmitting readings now,' Kirk said swiftly, pressing a button on the comm unit. 'I've got that woman here. I've stunned her. Spock's sedated. But she's still in his mind somehow, Bones. She's pushing him over the edge!'

There was a moment of silence as McCoy studied the readings intently.

'His heart rate's peaking into dangerous levels,' he murmured. 'Putting strain on his other organs. His kidneys are going to shut down if this keeps up.'

'Scott's going to have the ship here in sixteen hours,' Kirk said quickly. 'Will that be soon enough, Bones?'

McCoy rubbed a hand over his forehead, staring at the readings.

'You've got him sedated?' he asked.

Kirk nodded. 'This is the second shot I've given him. When they're both unconscious it seems to make it easier for Spock, but it doesn't let up entirely. And when the sedative wears off he won't come out of it.'

'She's not affecting you at all?'

'Not in the slightest – and if she could, I'm betting she'd be free by now and we'd both be guests of the Malkerian security forces.'

'It sounds like he's vulnerable because of his telepathic ability,' McCoy muttered. 'All the control in the world isn't helping him – she's got a path straight into his head. Give him five ccs of kylanil, Jim. It'll deaden his ability. You can repeat the dose every four hours. It'll make him feel pretty weird – a bit like being suddenly blinded – but it should shut the door to her mind. Give him that, see if he calms, and then ease him off the sedative with four ccs of adrexaline. If he doesn't wake up, call me again.'

'And his heart?' Kirk asked anxiously.

'Keep treating it according to guidelines. The main thing is for him to get control of himself again. Once he's conscious and she's out of his head, he can start to try to calm himself, and the drugs will do the rest. Keep him in bed, keep him calm. I don't want him vertical for anything – *_anything,_* Jim,' he emphasised. 'You think you can improvise a bed pan?'

Kirk almost laughed at that, despite his anxiety.

'I'll do what I can, Bones, but I don't think he'll be very happy about it,' he smiled.

'He'll be alive to be not very happy about it,' McCoy said grimly. 'I want you to get a urine sample for analysis, Jim. I want to see how far his kidneys are gone.'

'Will sixteen hours be soon enough?' Kirk asked anxiously.

McCoy nodded slowly. 'Do everything I've told you to do, and sixteen hours _*should_* be soon enough.'


	12. Chapter 11

11.

Spock drifted awake with agonising slowness. He was aware that his entire upper body ached, and that his breathing felt strangely constricted, but it was hard to process the reason why. His mind seemed to have been soaked in alcohol, or wrapped in cotton wool, or somehow muted to intelligence and clear thought. He was aware of someone sitting next to him, their hand on his arm. He was aware of the scent of Jim, and the sounds of Jim – and when he opened his eyes he could see the face of Jim watching him with concerned eyes – but he could not _*feel_* Jim. Every tiny psychological nuance that made up Jim as a complete picture to him was missing.

'Jim…?' he murmured, with a question quavering in his voice. 'What has happened to me?'

Kirk smiled gently at him, increasing the pressure on Spock's arm.

'You had a series of small heart attacks,' he said softly. 'You need to start taking control of your processes, Spock. Try to keep your heart steady.'

'No,' Spock murmured, touching a trembling hand to his temple. 'No, my – '

He faltered, grasping for words. The world felt so strange. He lifted his hand with a great effort, touching shaking fingers to Kirk's own temple and closing his eyes. He swam in darkness, and nothingness.

'Jim, where are you?' he asked in a disconcerted voice. 'Is this – Are you – real?'

'I'm real,' Kirk said with great gentleness. 'Bones said you'd feel strange. He told me to give you kylanil, Spock.'

'Kylanil…' Spock echoed.

Phrases drifted into his head. Chemical castration. Reduction to psi-null. Blinding. It was a punishment used so rarely in the Federation that it always made the news when it occurred. To remove a Vulcan's telepathic ability for – what crime was it? Mental rape, most often. Or the use of meld in violent or extreme crime. The practice was condemned by many, outlawed on Vulcan, but non-Vulcans just did not understand…

'Kylanil,' he repeated. Guilt was swimming in his head. 'What – have I done?'

'*_Spock,*_' Kirk said in a distraught tone. 'Spock, you haven't done anything. Don't you remember? Do you know where you are? Good God, Bones never told me…'

'I – am on Malker,' he said slowly, looking around himself, gradually recognising the room in which he lay. 'I committed murder.'

'_*No,_*' Kirk said firmly. 'You didn't commit murder. Spock, do you remember going to find that woman? Malis Arkania?'

Spock flinched, a hand shooting to his temple in remembered pain.

'She was in my mind,' he murmured. 'I recall – standing outside her house with you. And then – '

He shuddered. _*Trapped in that cell, staring at the table, that woman's mind clawing into his. The guilt seeping through him like radiation poisoning. Waiting for death..._* He felt as if he had been reliving that time for an eternity between then and now. If Kirk had told him he had been unconscious for a decade he would have believed him.

'I had to give you kylanil to cut off your receptiveness to telepathy,' Kirk told him clearly, calling him back from his distracted thoughts. 'There wasn't any other choice. Your heart couldn't take the strain. Bones told me you'd find it strange, but I didn't expect it to be this bad for you…'

'It worked,' Spock said slowly. All this numbness and absence of awareness in his mind meant, at least, that it had worked.

'You started to calm down almost the second I gave it to you. You had fifteen mini heart attacks before that, Spock. Your kidneys were starting to fail. I had to stop her torturing you. You would have died…' He was silent for a long gap, then said hesitantly, 'It's not – permanent, is it? Bones told me to give you five ccs.'

Spock shook his head slowly. His ability to think was gradually gathering strength, the longer he was awake. It seemed that the sedative was confusing him more than the kylanil. The kylanil had simply left him feeling as if he was separated from the world by plate grass.

'No. Not permanent,' he murmured. 'Not in small doses. In one massive dose, it catastrophically kills off the telepathic areas. It's used as a punishment. An extreme punishment… She implanted guilt in my mind. I thought…'

'No, Spock,' Kirk said softly, stroking a hand over Spock's forehead, then leaning close to him to kiss him gently. 'No punishment, I promise. Just a way to keep you alive.'

He came alongside the Vulcan in the bed, putting his arms around him and holding him tightly. Spock lay there, feeling the sensation of Jim against his body, and inhaling the scent of him where his nose was pressed against his neck, and feeling curiously alone.

'How do humans stand this?' he asked slowly. 'Living with your mind half closed?'

'Spock,' Kirk murmured. 'I'm so sorry I had to do this to you…'

'No,' Spock said quickly. 'No, Jim. You had to shut off my telepathy. It – is strange for me. But the confusion is mostly due to the sedative, and what _*she_* did. She so consumed my mind… I was trapped in a nightmare that seemed real. She implanted so much guilt in my mind…'

'That's what she was there for,' Kirk said bitterly. 'That's why she'd come to your cell. To make sure you _*knew_* you were guilty. To make sure you didn't question it.'

'And I did not question it,' Spock murmured. 'At least, not as I should. That time was – strange. Horrible. Her manipulation must account for it…'

'Being locked up waiting to die…' Kirk murmured.

'Yes…' Spock said uncomfortably.

'Well, the ship's going to be here in a little over fourteen hours,' Kirk said, changing the subject quickly. 'Once you're on the _Enterprise_ Bones will have you sorted out in no time.'

'The _Enterprise_?' Spock echoed, staring at him. 'Jim, did you make them aware of my existence?'

'I had to,' Kirk said quickly. 'You need proper medical care, Spock. Bones can advise me all he likes, but I can't operate on you. It'll be all right,' he said, at the flicker of doubt in Spock's eyes. 'I'm taking that woman with us. She's upstairs, unconscious. All we need from her is a confession, and you'll be vindicated.'

'All we need,' Spock nodded slowly. 'Captain, this is not orthodox.'

Kirk snorted suddenly with laughter. 'Spock, what about any of this is orthodox? About you ostensibly being executed, and surviving and escaping in the most miraculous way, and being framed like that in the first place, and about a captain of a starship suddenly discovering that he loves his first officer in a way he'd never imagined?'

Spock allowed half a smile to touch his lips. 'I don't think romantic love is particularly relevant to the case,' he said.

'No,' Kirk smiled back. 'But it's relevant as hell to _*us._* If none of this had happened we might never have realised.'

Spock raised his brown eyes to Kirk's hazel ones.

'I believe – that in the moment that I entered death, or believed myself to be entering death, I knew,' he said. 'I did not think about that moment afterwards, but – the thought that I would never see you again was worse than the thought of death itself. If I feared anything, I feared that.'

The memory of Spock's eyes at that last meeting between them in the prison was suddenly all that Kirk could think of. His only reply was to lean close to the Vulcan, touching his lips to Spock's own and dissolving the memory of Spock's fear and helplessness and despair in a lingering kiss. He stroked his hand over Spock's dark hair, feeling the oddity himself now that there was no sparking mental contact in that touch. He was not precisely sure of how his awareness of a link between them manifested itself, but he knew now that he missed it, and he hated that woman anew for everything that she had done.

'She did not affect you at all?' Spock said curiously, as Kirk drew away.

Jim smiled. Even without that gentle mental contact, this was still Spock, still with his mind ever focussed on scientific practicalities, still half aware of what his captain was thinking.

'Not in the slightest,' he said. 'I think it took her aback.'

'Interesting,' Spock nodded, his brows knitted in thought. 'Perhaps one must have a residual telepathic capacity in order to be receptive to her attack. My entrapment was very well thought out indeed.'

'It must have been,' Kirk nodded, leaning in to kiss the Vulcan again. 'But it doesn't matter,' he said, planting kisses along Spock's jaw. 'None of it matters until we're on the ship.'

'Jim,' Spock said seriously, putting a hand on Kirk's arm. 'She is upstairs at this moment. We cannot – '

'She's stunned, tied up, and behind a locked door,' Kirk shrugged impatiently. 'She's hardly in the room with us. And I'm not about to make love to you…'

A small line appeared between Spock's brows.

'What is it, Spock?' Kirk asked gently.

Spock sighed, and said, 'Ordinarily I would have some consciousness of her presence. But I have none. It is – disconcerting.'

'All right,' Kirk smiled, stroking a hand down the Vulcan's face. 'All right, Spock. I know now's not the time. You'll just have to forgive me for being human…'

'*_Where is she?*_'

Kirk sat bolt upright at the voice coming from the doorway of Spock's room. He had felt a start of pure surprise run through Spock at the unexpected presence. A girl stood in the open doorway, clad in a bright red coat, a slim weapon in her hand. Her expression seemed torn between determination, fear and obvious confusion.

'Hana,' Spock said slowly, moving as if to sit up, and then thinking better of it. The aching in his upper body and the shortness of breath and dizziness he was experiencing were more persuasive than anything a doctor could tell him. He focussed his eyes intensely on the girl's face as if he was trying to compensate for the missing mental perception. 'Jim, this is our neighbour. The girl I told you about.'

'You _*are_* a Vulcan,' the girl hissed in astonishment at the sight of his uncovered head. 'I thought – I thought you were – '

She stuttered into silence. Under the influence of the kylanil Spock could read nothing into her words, but Kirk understood the odd look of pained betrayal in her eyes. She had thought that Spock was beautiful, perfect, a mysterious fantasy enclosed in a magic hideaway in the forest. And now she had found him lying in bed alongside another man. Now he had been revealed as a something that was opposite from every idea that she had had of him. A kidnapper, possibly a murderer, and apparently deep in a relationship with another man. His unattainability had suddenly, shockingly, been confirmed in every way.

'You're that – Commander Spack, aren't you?' she asked after a few long beats of silence, her eyes burning onto his as if she could will him to deny it.

'I am Spock,' Spock said smoothly. 'Hana, can you explain – ?'

'Can _*you_* explain,' she retorted with the fury of betrayal, 'how it is that you came to my sister's house, rang her doorbell, then shot her, and kidnapped her? What the hell – ?'

'Your _*sister_*?' Kirk asked incredulously, staring at her.

'I was there at her house,' she continued, ignoring Kirk's astonishment. 'I recognised your aircar. I was at the top of the stairs when I saw you shooting her and dragging her away.'

'And did you see what she did to Spock?' Kirk asked acidly. 'Did you see how she'd brought him to his knees by infiltrating his mind with hers? Did you know that your sister committed the murder that Spock was condemned to death for?'

That information seemed to stagger her. The expression of pure anger and betrayal in her eyes flickered a little as her gaze moved from Kirk to Spock and back again. Her eyes turned back to Spock, and lingered there. It was obvious to Kirk that there was a large part of her – whether influenced by hormones or true feelings he did not know – that was willing Spock to _*not_* be the villain in this.

'Infiltrating his mind?' she echoed, as if that was far greater a shock than the idea that her sister had committed murder. 'What do you mean?'

'Malis Arkania is an approved Ankavite,' Spock said softly. It was obvious that the girl had no idea about a very large part of her sister's life. 'She was deeply involved in the murder that saw me condemned to death.'

The weapon in the girl's hand seemed to drop a little.

'She's my half-sister,' she said slowly, as if she needed an excuse to distance herself from the other. 'She's ten years older than me. I wasn't brought up with her…'

'Her uncle is a governmental aide,' Spock continued.

'Mr Sendar,' she nodded slowly. 'He's her uncle, but not mine. He's an isolationist – a member of the Traditionalist party… I never liked him…'

Spock's forehead furrowed. 'Mr Sendar is a member of an opposition party?' he asked curiously. 'I believed he was an aide to the Minister for Culture?'

'He is,' she nodded. 'The Minister for Culture for the Traditionalist Party. They all have their own ministers. They don't go on about whether they're in power or not – especially if they're not in power,' she said, as if the fact should be self-evident.

'Then Mr Sendar's party has no parliamentary power,' Spock mused.

'No, they just shout a lot,' she nodded. 'But they don't have a say. It drives them crazy, too. They spent the last eighty years with a clear majority, and suddenly they've got nothing…'

'Nothing but the chance to persuade the public to vote against the ruling party's interests…' Spock mused.

'To rouse them to traditional xenophobia,' Kirk nodded, his eyes locking with Spock's. 'That explains a lot, doesn't it?'

'It does indeed,' Spock nodded. 'And an approved Ankavite would, I imagine, be a very useful tool in the fight to sway the minds of the people… I imagine that your sister has been very busy, Hana, as an Ankavite in the employ of an opposition party.'

'Oh, don't,' the girl said plaintively, as if Spock had been discussing rotting carcasses or some other unpleasant subject. 'I can't stand to think of it. Malis… All this time, she's been able to look into my head, and – Ugh!' She shuddered deeply.

Spock shook his head. 'I do not fully understand the capabilities of such people. What precisely is an approved Ankavite?'

The girl finally sat down on a chair near the door, and sat staring at a patch of carpet just in front of her feet.

'It's true, isn't it?' she asked finally, looking up at the two men. 'Everything you say about her? I've never really known her… And now I know her even less that I thought I did…'

'If you wish for some proof of what we say, we can show you the records held by her previous workplace,' Spock offered gravely.

She shook her head. 'No,' she said, staring at him. 'I – trust you. You looked trustworthy when I'd stand outside looking up at you from the trees. You looked trustworthy when I talked with you outside the house. And – I know you've just told me everything's different, but there still seems to be truth in your eyes. I know why you lied…' She half laughed. 'I always used to hide my diary when Malis stayed in the house. I didn't know why, but it seemed right…'

Spock glanced briefly at Kirk. With his telepathic sense deadened, it was difficult to properly interpret the motivations between everything that was said, but the girl seemed sincere enough, even if her logic was far from sound.

'What exactly is an approved Ankavite?' he repeated.

'Just that,' she shrugged. 'Someone who hasn't had the operation, but has been certified by the government. Mostly they work in the secret services – at least, I always thought that… But Malis was working for her uncle right up until a few months before this murder happened. She said she was – doing secretarial work, or something…'

'Is that plausible?' Spock asked curiously.

She shrugged again. 'She's ambitious, but being the secretary to a government aide is tough work. It's not just typing notes. It can lead to promotion.'

'And if a person is an Ankavite – ?'

'The Traditionalists _*hate_* Ankavites,' she said in a bewildered tone. 'I can't believe they'd use one like that… But then – ' She shrugged. 'I don't know that you can trust any politician any more. Everyone's so scared of what's outside our planet, and the government wants to drag us in to space…'

'What, precisely, are an Ankavite's skills, Hana?' Spock asked patiently.

'I don't know, precisely,' she said finally. 'I mean, it's not like I mix with them. Or, I didn't think I mixed with them… Like I said before – their thoughts just spill over into your head. You feel like you're going crazy…'

Spock glanced at Kirk. 'It is entirely possible, Captain, that in a society of people who have forgotten how to control their telepathy, that those with non-curtailed abilities would project their thoughts without any kind of restraint. It is also possible that they would be able to sense the thoughts of others.'

'And if they learnt to control it?' Kirk wondered.

'Then they would be unstoppable by the majority of people,' Spock said seriously. 'If they wished to influence another's thoughts – the thoughts of someone who has not learnt to block telepathy since the majority of their own ability has been surgically removed – then there would be nothing that that person would be able to do. It would be possible that they would not even be aware of the attack.'

'Then – it's logical to assume,' Kirk said, with a slight smile at Spock at his usurpation of Spock's pet phrase, 'that Malis Arkania has learnt to control her skill.'

Spock's lips were pressed together in a thin line.

'Hana,' he said slowly. 'Do you believe it possible that a person with complete command of their telepathic abilities would be able to influence another's actions?'

'Influence?' she repeated. 'Like – put suggestions into their head?'

'Like cause the other person to perform actions as if they were controlling a puppet?' Spock asked in a very controlled voice.

She shook her slowly. 'I – don't know. Maybe… I mean, people used to say that they could, in the old times…'

Spock looked at Kirk with an indefinable expression on his face.

'Then it is very possible that I, in fact, committed the murder for which I was convicted,' he said in a low voice.

'No!' Kirk said instantly, his hand moving reflexively to Spock's. 'No. It's possible that she _*made_* you do it. It's possible she used you as a tool. It's not the same thing.'

'It may perhaps be the same thing to the Malkerian authorities,' Spock said gravely, carefully removing his hand from Kirk's.

'But not to the Federation,' Kirk said staunchly. 'Spock, we have the woman, and we have a computer full of assembled evidence, and we have _*you_*. We've got evidence enough to clear you before the Federation council.'

'Will that also allow us to kidnap a Malkerian national?' Spock asked pointedly.

Kirk smiled grimly. 'I'm bringing her into custody for assault on a Starfleet officer.'

'I am no longer a Starfleet officer,' Spock said in a level voice. 'Neither am I a Federation citizen. Such privileges would have been terminated with my death.'

'You _*didn't die,_*' Kirk insisted. 'If they were terminated, it was a mistake. And you were definitely a Starfleet officer the first time, in that alley, and a Starfleet officer all those times she came into your cell and raped your mind to keep you believing you were guilty.'

'Now – wait,' Hana said slowly, looking between them. 'You're saying that _*she_* made you murder that vagrant woman? You're going to take her away and accuse her of that?'

Spock saw her fingers tightening on the weapon that until now had been hanging loosely in her hand.

'Hana,' he said slowly.

'I may not be that close to her, but I don't want to see her executed,' she said in a low voice. 'You're a stranger, you're not – '

'He has a *_life_*,' Kirk said pointedly. 'And he didn't commit murder. Spock will _*die_* if he stays here, and he can't return to the Federation unless we prove he's innocent.'

'But she'll die – '

'The Federation no longer executes for _*any_* crime,' Spock assured her. 'It is unconscionable in a civilised society.'

Hana gave a short laugh. 'Well, I guess that's your indictment on my world…'

'As one who has lain in an execution chamber and felt lethal poison enter my body, I believe I have some right to comment on that particular custom,' Spock said flatly. 'If it were not for my peculiar personal biology, I would have died in punishment for a crime that I did not commit.'

She closed her eyes briefly, and then nodded.

'Will she be safe with you?' she asked.

'She will not be in danger of death,' Spock assured her. 'And if she is convicted of a crime, she will be held in a humane fashion.'

Hana held out the weapon on her open palm, and Kirk took it with a smile.

'Thank you, Hana,' he said in his most practised tone of charm

She nodded. 'Will you need me to – testify, or something?'

Spock looked at Kirk, then back at her, and shook his head. 'I believe it highly unlikely.'

She nodded again. 'Then – I will go home, and forget that there was anyone but a Rigelian and his friend staying in this house,' she said in a controlled tone of sadness. 'Commander Spock, I hope your doctors can help you.'

'Thank you, Hana,' Spock said sincerely. 'I don't believe that either Captain Kirk or I will forget your assistance.'

She smiled quickly, then turned to the door as if she wished to leave before she changed her mind.

'Did you want to take your weapon?' Kirk asked as she reached the door. He had his own phaser ready to fire if necessary, and it seemed symbolic of at least a certain level of trust.

'Oh – thank you,' she smiled, turning back. 'It's my father's. I'd have to explain – '

Kirk nodded, and passed the slim weapon to her with the great care he always reserved for alien technology. She took it, and very deliberately slipped it inside her coat pocket and closed a buttoned flap over it.

'Good luck,' she said, looking directly at Spock.

Spock nodded, covering over his split-second pondering on whether luck would have any effect on the situation. She smiled, and left the room.

'Can we trust her, Spock?' Kirk asked as the door to the house closed behind the girl with a muted click.

'If you're asking for a telepathic insight as to her intentions, I cannot help you,' Spock reminded him. 'But – I believe that we can trust her.'

Kirk moved quickly to the window, and watched at the small aircar rose into the sky and began to move slowly across the canopy of the forest.

'South-south-west,' he murmured. 'Is that right for her home?'

'As far as I am aware,' Spock nodded. 'I believe, Captain, that of the two siblings in question, we have the correct one in our custody.'

Kirk smiled. 'Your belief is good enough for me, Spock. You formed your opinions of her before that kylanil was addling your mind.'

Spock's eyebrow quirked at the word _*addling_*, but he nodded in agreement.

'Do you believe that you can keep Ms Arkania restrained for the fourteen hours before the ship arrives?' he asked.

Kirk smiled grimly. 'Oh, trust me, Spock,' he said in a dark tone. 'I am _*perfectly_* capable of keeping that woman subdued for a lot longer than fourteen hours. We need her alive to prove your innocence. That's the only limit I'm working to here.'

Spock's eyebrow lifted again at the captain's dark intensity, but he said nothing, and nodded instead. He had never known Kirk to entirely allow his emotions to rule his actions – but he was aware that he was very good at keeping his word. Malis Arkania would be beamed up to the _Enterprise_ alive and intact in fourteen hours time. Of that, he had no doubt.


	13. Chapter 12

12.

'… and get me the cardio-stimulator!'

Spock reintroduction to the _Enterprise_ was a rough one, as he was manoeuvred swiftly from someone's arms onto a gurney that felt uncomfortably cold under his back. He blinked at the bright lights above him, registering a brief impression of the shuttle bay ceiling, before being jarred back to the physicality of his own body by the tight, crushing pain in his chest and the fact that he seemed unable to breathe. He had not even realised that he had fallen asleep – or more likely, fallen unconscious. He had a clear memory of Kirk carrying him to the small aircar, and perhaps later of a transfer to his hired shuttle, but at that point his awareness became hazy.

A drug hissed into his arm, the sharp sting of the hypo focussing his attention for a moment. A mask pressed over his nose and mouth, and the feeling of _peine fort et dure_ lessened as oxygen rushed into his lungs. There was a ripping noise, and he felt cold air on his torso, and then the cold shock of the cardio-stimulator touching his ribs just above where his heart lay – and then he drifted into unconsciousness again.

'Bones, will he make it?' Kirk asked, staring urgently at the doctor over Spock's pallid form.

McCoy did not look up from his work. 'Should do,' he muttered. 'Just let me work. Christine, give me that dibenoline,' he said, holding out his hand.

Christine Chapel appeared to be in shock, caught between joy that the Vulcan was alive and concern about his condition, but she passed the hypo over without hesitation, doing her job as always despite her personal feelings.

'All right, let's move him,' McCoy said briskly, taking a reading as the drug began to work. 'He's stable enough to last to sickbay.'

And the medical team left the shuttle bay in a well trained blur of speed, leaving Kirk alone in a sudden silence that seemed to press in on his eardrums.

He stood motionless for a second, deliberately pulling back a professional façade over his personal worry. Then he moved stiffly to the intercom and punched the button with his clenched fist.

'Security, this is the captain,' he said in a clipped voice. 'Send a team to the shuttle bay to transport an unconscious prisoner to the brig.'

An acknowledgement came, but he did not wait to hear it. Instead he moved back to the small private shuttle and roughly pulled the unconscious form of Malis Arkania out onto the shuttle bay floor. He stood staring down at her unconscious face, her dark, untidy hair and slightly parted lips. She did not look capable of vicious murder, or of infiltrating a man's mind until he was almost sent mad. In sleep, she just looked like any other woman.

He deliberately turned his back on her. If he continued to focus on her feminine ordinariness he feared that a kernel of sympathy might begin to grow in him. She deserved no sympathy. She had almost caused Spock's death, twice now. She had raped that dear, intelligent mind. She had sown fear and bewilderment and guilt in someone who had done nothing wrong, and had continued to harass him right up to the point of his supposed execution. There had been absolutely no mercy in her actions. He would show no mercy in his.

He waited just long enough to give the security team brief explanations and instructions, and then turned on his heel and followed the familiar route to sickbay, and Spock.

He was frustrated by a shut door and a determined nurse standing outside it.

'Mr Spock's in surgery, sir,' she said quickly as Kirk stepped toward the door that she was trying to bar to him. 'No one's allowed in.'

'Nurse – er – Gable,' he nodded, stretching to bring the woman's personnel listing into his head. 'That's very commendable, but Dr McCoy didn't mean – '

'Dr McCoy specifically mentioned your name, sir,' she said with a mixture of firmness and apology. 'He can't be disturbed. He's working on the weakness in Mr Spock's heart, and he can't have distractions. The door's locked – on a medical command code,' she added, as Kirk showed an inclination to push past her anyway.

The captain sighed, and then smiled tiredly. 'I have to commend you for doing your job, Nurse Gable. See that the doctor calls me as soon as he's able.'

'I will, sir,' she said sincerely. 'And, sir – ' she said as Kirk began to turn away.

'Yes, Nurse?'

'We're all very pleased to have Mr Spock back,' she said with a gentle smile. 'It's the most unexpected gift…'

'Yes,' Kirk nodded slowly. 'Yes, Mr Spock is an unexpected gift, isn't he?' He turned back to her, more inclined to talk now he knew that there was nothing immediate that he could do. 'Did – the doctor say anything about his chances?'

'They're good,' she nodded crisply. 'The operation holds its own risks, but both he and Dr M'Benga are very experienced with Mr Spock's physiology. Dr McCoy said – and I quote – *_tell the captain it's his job to keep the ship straight and level. Let me see to Spock.*_'

Kirk smiled. McCoy always managed to be reassuring in his own unique way.

'Well, I think I'll trust Mr Scott to keep the ship safe and level for now,' he smiled. 'And what about Commander Stevenson, Nurse?' he began, picking a subject that might both be useful and keep his mind off the very vital operation going on only a few metres away. 'How has he compared to Mr Spock as a science officer?'

The nurse looked down at her boots, her clasped hands moving awkwardly.

'Well, I – It's hard to compare such different characters, sir,' she began tentatively.

Kirk moved a little closer. 'Off the record, Nurse. I'm intrigued. How have you found him?'

She cleared her throat nervously, then smiled quickly and said, 'I find him – a little rigid, sir. He's not the easiest person to work alongside in the labs.'

Kirk's eyebrow raised. That could be a description of Spock, by someone who was unfamiliar with the Vulcan, or did not like him very much. But rigidity in a Vulcan was an expected frame for their personality. Rigidity in a human science officer was something altogether different.

'You don't like him?' he asked in an undertone.

She shook her head quickly. 'I – don't think many people like him, sir,' she said in a rushed voice. 'I'm sure he's an excellent officer, but – '

'That's fine, Nurse,' Kirk nodded, touching a hand to her arm to spare her any further uncomfortable admissions. 'That's all I wanted to know. I've only met the man briefly. I needed to know what to expect.'

He exhaled a long, pent-up breath. He had not realised until now that he seemed to have been holding his breath since Spock began to experience cardiac difficulties again in the aircar _en route_ to the shuttle park.

'Well,' he said slowly. 'I – guess I've got calls to make. I'll use the doctor's transmitter, Nurse. If he wants me, I'll be in his office.'

'I'll let him know, sir,' she nodded, and Kirk left the room, trying to work out what the hell he was going to say to Command.

******

Commodore Harley Statten looked both exasperated and faintly pleased as he looked out at Kirk through the viewscreen in McCoy's office. It was obviously the middle of the night where he was – he was not even in uniform, but clad in a dark burgundy dressing gown that was tied firmly across an obviously bare chest. He had sat very patiently, however, as Kirk had explained at length exactly _*why_* he was calling at this unpleasant hour.

'Let me get this clear, Jim,' he asked in his clipped, precise voice as Kirk fell silent. 'Commander Spock is not dead. He was not executed on Malker.'

'No, sir,' Kirk said, rubbing a hand awkwardly over his forehead. 'Well, sir – to be exact, they _*thought_* they'd executed him, but he was – well – '

Statten exhaled, looking briefly at another screen. 'Let's leave that for the doctor's report to explain, eh, Jim?' he asked. 'But – you're saying that the Malkerians _*believe_* him to be dead. They have no idea that he didn't die?'

'As far as I'm aware, sir,' Kirk nodded.

'And he _*did not_* commit the murder for which he was convicted?'

'No, sir.'

'But – you have the supposed murderer on board the ship with you? In fact, you assaulted and abducted a Malkerian citizen at the same time that you smuggled a condemned prisoner off their planet?'

'Y-es, sir,' Kirk said with rather more hesitation. 'But she was attacking Spock – '

'Telepathically,' Statten interjected.

'Telepathically, yes,' Kirk nodded. 'But cripplingly. His heart condition meant that if I'd allowed her to continue it would have killed him.'

'And you thought the only solution to this problem was to kidnap a Malkerian citizen at the same time as returning your – friend – to the _Enterprise_? For God's sake, why, Jim? Why not just bring him back, let your doctor fix him, and let him slip anonymously into society somewhere a long way away from Malkerian space? Why abduct a Malkerian and then tell _*me_* about it, for God's sake, so that I'm duty bound to _*do_* something about it?'

'Because Spock's innocent,' Kirk said stubbornly. 'And I want to prove his innocence, and have him reinstated in Starfleet with his former rank and position. I won't have him live like a fugitive on the boundaries of society. He's given his life to Starfleet, goddammit, and they did nothing to help him when he was facing trial on Malker, _*or_* when he was facing execution. It's time for Starfleet to give something back.'

It was Statten's turn to rub his hand over his face in exasperation.

'There would have been a hundred better ways to do this, Jim,' he said. 'Most of which don't include abducting a citizen of a non-Federation planet.'

'Not that would give Spock back his life and his career and his reputation,' Kirk said firmly. 'The _*only_* way to do that was to get my hands on the real criminal here. Will you just give me enough leeway, sir – just a few weeks – to secure the confession that will clear Spock? He was never given a chance at defence on Malker. Let him have it now.'

Statten sighed. 'I'll do what I can, Jim. I can see how important this is to you. And – privately, I don't believe Spock is guilty any more than you do. It suits Federation Legal for this crime to have been committed by a renegade Vulcan – they can hope to shrug that off as having nothing to do with Starfleet – but it's a damn thin story to me.'

Kirk laughed shortly at that.

'It suits Fed Legal for Spock to have done it because they think they'll get back into negotiations with Malker. It suits the Malkerian opposition party for Spock to have done it because it'll turn the populace dead against the negotiations. It's – a little crazy, isn't it, Harley?'

Commodore Statten smiled. 'Diplomacy is a little crazy, Jim. Dealing with two sets of people with vastly different mindsets and cultural backgrounds. Diplomacy's the craziest card in the pack. That's the problem.' He smiled again in sympathy at the look of exhaustion on Kirk's face. 'Jim, you look like you haven't slept in a week. Get some rest. I'll do what I can to iron out the ructions you've caused, and I'll get back to you. Okay?'

Kirk nodded tiredly, and smiled. 'All right, Harley. Thank you. I appreciate it – more than you can know.'

He waited, as protocol dictated, for the Commodore to cut the communication, then rested his head down on folded arms, and sighed. Rest seemed very tempting, but there were still shreds of adrenaline catching in his bloodstream, and he knew he had no hope of sleeping while he was still waiting to hear of Spock's progress.

Something must have happened to his exhausted body, however, because when he heard a voice behind him saying, 'Sir – ' in a very formal tone he sat bolt upright, momentarily bewildered as to where he was or how much time had passed.

'Where – ?' he began, then, 'Spock? Is he – ?'

'Yes, sir, I wanted to talk to you about Mr Spock,' the formal voice continued, and he focussed his eyes on the relatively unfamiliar face of Commander Stevenson, the replacement Science Officer.

He rubbed a hand over bleary eyes, saying, 'Sorry, Commander. I must have dropped off. What was it you wanted to say about Commander Spock?'

'I was a little confused about the presence of _*Mr_* Spock on the ship,' Stevenson said, putting heavy emphasis on the word _*Mr_*.

Kirk blinked, still too addled by sleep to fully take in the man's tone.

'It must seem a little odd,' he conceded. 'By – a miracle of biology – Spock did not die on Malker, and he escaped from captivity. I just got him back here – he needs urgent treatment.'

'Sir, he's a convicted criminal,' Stevenson said coldly.

Kirk blinked again, in amazement this time as he realised the thrust of Stevenson's apparent problem.

'Commander Spock is innocent,' he said shrugged, trying to keep the conversation from descending into the conflict that he sensed Stevenson wanted. 'And anyway – he served his sentence.'

Stevenson shuffled his feet. 'With all due respect, sir, his sentence was not properly carried out.'

'Are you saying that Spock should have been _*executed_*? Should still be executed?' Kirk asked incredulously. A cold feeling clenched at his heart just at the thought of that possibility.

Commander Stevenson shrugged, the expression on his face one of complete seriousness. 'Well, sir. It was the sentence for his crime…'

Kirk's face hardened. 'I'll have no advocates of the death penalty on my ship, mister. We live in a civilised society.'

Commander Stevenson shook his head slowly, then said, 'I'm sorry, sir. But my belief stands. An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.'

'Do you also advocate sacrificing a pigeon when a woman gets her menstrual period?' Kirk asked tartly. When Stevenson reacted with blankness, he smiled. 'No. I guessed not. You just pick and choose which tenets to live by.'

'I'm – not sure that I understand your meaning, sir,' Stevenson said slowly. 'But I'll be sure not to air those views on duty, Captain.'

'See that you don't,' Kirk said in a hard tone. 'In very little time Commander Spock will be declared innocent – and then I think a lot of people will be _*very_* grateful that the Malkerian punishment for Spock's supposed crime didn't work out.'

'Meantime, sir,' Stevenson said relentlessly. 'He should be held in the brig.'

Kirk's mouth opened, and after a moment he realised that he was gaping at the man without speaking. He snapped mouth shut again, and folded his arms across his chest.

'Mr Stevenson, you are a _*science officer,_*' Kirk said meaningfully. 'Mr Scott is the First Officer of this ship for now. Your duties are limited to scientific matters, not security. And Commander Spock's location aboard this ship is _*my_* decision,' he said with steel in his voice. 'At the moment, he has no choice but to stay in the sickbay. After then, he will return to his quarters. And as soon as he is reinstated within Starfleet he will be back on duty, and you will be _*off my ship_*, mister.'

Stevenson blinked, then said in a level voice, 'If I may be excused, sir…'

'You're excused,' Kirk said dismissively, turning away so he did not need to see the man leaving the room.

The door swished closed, and Kirk sat still at the desk, trembling with naked rage and shock at Stevenson's attitude. After a moment he pulled back some semblance of control, and pressed the button on the intercom.

'Kirk to bridge,' he said in a low voice. 'Uhura?'

'Lieutenant Palmer, sir,' came the cultured voice of the reserve communications officer. 'Lieutenant Uhura is off duty.'

'Palmer,' Kirk nodded. He had forgotten that it was the middle of the night on the _Enterprise_, at least as far as alpha shift was concerned. 'Sorry, Lieutenant. Miss Palmer, I want you to keep a tab on a crewmember's communications for me. Let me know if anything is sent off ship.'

'Of course, sir,' she said quickly. Such a request was not terribly unusual. 'Which crewmember, sir?'

'Commander Stevenson – the new science officer.'

'Yes, sir,' she said with more alacrity. Kirk was quickly gaining the sense that very few people on board the ship were particularly fond of Stevenson. 'I could block off-ship communications for him, if you like? Tell him there are technical difficulties?'

'No…' Kirk said slowly. 'Just monitor, and if possible record. Particularly communications to Command.'

'Of course, sir,' she said quickly. 'Will that be all, Captain?'

'That's all, Lieutenant,' he nodded.

'Then, Palmer out. Oh, and – welcome back, sir.'

'Thank you, Lieutenant,' Kirk smiled. 'Appreciated.'

He sat staring aimlessly at the desk for a few minutes – then rested his head down again on his folded arms. He had never expected his reintroduction to his ship to be a smooth one, considering the circumstances, but right now all he wanted to give attention to was Spock's health, rather than attacks from within and without on Spock's very presence.

******

'Jim? … Jim?'

He became aware of a firm hand on his arm, shaking it gently, and he jumped, raising his head swiftly and blinking at McCoy's face.

'Bones,' he muttered, rubbing what felt like a fine layer of grit from his eyes. 'Bones, Spock – '

'Spock's fine, Jim,' McCoy said with a warm smile, putting a hand to Kirk's arm as he stumbled to his feet. 'No, there's no point in going in to him. He won't wake for a good few hours. It was pretty severe surgery I had to put him through.'

'But – he's all right?' Kirk faltered.

'His heart's fine – or as fine as it can be after a five hour operation,' the doctor nodded, with a well-practised tone of reassurance. 'I've targeted each weakened area and stimulated healing, and he's getting stronger by the hour. But I had to have him on bypass for most of that time, and he's taken most of the stored blood we had for him in transfusion. It's a huge toll on anyone's body. He's gonna be very weak and shaky for a while. And – his kidneys were pretty much shot by the time you got him here, Jim. I've got him on dialysis while I culture replacement organs. He won't be able to leave sickbay for more than a few hours at a time until I can give him the transplants.'

Kirk blinked as he tried to take in the news, trying to work out if it were good or bad. The main thing was that Spock was _*alive…_*

'Jim,' McCoy said firmly, smiling at him, evidently realising his difficulty in taking everything in. 'It's *_all right._* He has every chance of recovering from the cardiac operation, and the kidney transplant is practically a hangnail in comparison.'

'I want to see him,' Jim said firmly.

'Jim, I told you, there's no point,' McCoy insisted. 'I've still got him on the kylanil, so he won't even pick up anything telepathically.'

'I don't care,' Kirk said stubbornly. 'I still want to see him.'

'Okay, Jim,' McCoy said finally, with an indulgent smile on his face. 'You can go see him. He's in one of the private rooms.'

Kirk looked at him for a moment.

'Bones, you never used to look at me like that before – ' He broke off, suddenly self-conscious.

'Before what?' McCoy asked, ushering him through towards the private room. 'Before you worked out there was a little more between you and Spock than congeniality and chess games?'

'Yes, before – that,' Kirk said awkwardly.

'Well, you know what they say,' McCoy grinned. 'Love changes everything. Go on in, Jim,' he said, touching the release on the door. 'I'll wait out here.'

Kirk moved through the door, suddenly focussed on nothing but the figure in the bed at the centre of the room. He barely noticed the increased temperature and the dim light that had been set to make the Vulcan as comfortable as possible.

Spock was lying very flat in the bed, and was obviously naked from the waist up. There was a slight bulk under the blanket about the level of Spock's lower ribs, speaking of heavy bandaging across his chest. One slender arm was held firmly in a drip infuser, where emerald blood was slowly seeping into a vein beneath the grey cover. Yet another tube appeared to be removing blood and running it through a slim machine set at the side of the bed – the dialysis machine, Kirk assumed, although he had never seen one in use due to the rarity of such severe kidney problems in his time.

Kirk dragged his eyes away from the machinery and focussed on Spock's face, seating himself almost without thinking on the chair by the bed. Spock looked utterly peaceful, but there was an unhealthy cast to his skin. No one, Kirk supposed, could go through major heart surgery and look entirely well straight afterwards. The Vulcan's eyes were closed and relaxed. His lips were slightly apart, and his breath came in shallow wafts, slightly laboured by the restriction about his chest. His free hand was limp, just poking out from the edge of the blanket – and Kirk took it, unresisting as it was, and curled his own hand about it, feeling the startling chill of the Vulcan's skin.

After some time he became aware of the soft sound of the door, and looked up, to see McCoy standing there, watching him.

'They don't make these chairs comfortable,' Kirk began, suddenly self-conscious of the way he had been gazing at the Vulcan. 'They should make these chairs good to sit in for long periods. Sleepable-in. You know.'

'Do you intend to sleep in here, Jim?' McCoy asked, with an amused smile on his face.

Kirk straightened up abruptly. 'Well, I – I just think the chairs should be comfortable, that's all. Hospitals never think about the visitors…'

'We're generally a little more focussed on making the _*patient_* comfortable,' McCoy said pointedly. 'But – you can sleep in here if you like, Jim. I can bring in a gurney, if you think you can make yourself comfortable on that?'

Kirk looked around the room briefly, shrugging. 'Oh, Bones, you don't need to go that far,' he began. 'But – if you think it would help Spock…'

'To have you well-rested and happy when he wakes up?' McCoy asked. 'I'm pretty sure that would help Spock.' He sighed. 'Look, I think I might have one of those old folding portable beds in one of the storerooms. I'll look it out for you. Just be aware that you won't get the best night's sleep, what with the sensors beeping and nurses coming in every half hour to check on him.'

'That's just fine, Bones,' Kirk smiled.

He let his attention move back to Spock again as McCoy bustled about fixing up the bed – and then got into it without protest and lay down under the blanket.

McCoy stood there for a moment, following Kirk's unwavering gaze to the Vulcan's face.

'Jim, if you don't use that bed to sleep, I'll take it away again,' he warned.

Kirk smiled, and then dutifully closed his eyes, murmuring, 'See, Bones. Sleep.'

'You're damn right _*sleep,_*' the doctor agreed.

The last thing Kirk was aware of was the soft hiss of a hypo against his neck, and McCoy saying softly, 'Don't worry. You'll be awake before he is – but this way at least you'll be sure of a few hours rest.' And then the irresistible warmth of sleep took him.


	14. Chapter 13

13.

'Jim.'

Kirk blinked his eyes open to see Spock, lying very flat in the bed still, his head turned sideways and his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the captain.

'Damn,' Kirk muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes and pushing himself up on an elbow. 'Bones promised I'd be awake before you.'

'Dr McCoy told me that the sedative left your system as long as two hours ago,' Spock said, with a sparkle in his eye despite his pallor and the weakness of his voice. 'You were sleeping quite naturally – and necessarily.'

'How do you feel?' Kirk asked.

Spock's eyebrow rose slightly. 'As if I had undergone vital surgery on a major organ.'

'I guess you've spoken to the doc this – ' Kirk's forehead furrowed. 'I want to say morning, but to tell you the truth I have no idea…'

'It is morning – just,' Spock told him. 'And yes, I have spoken to McCoy. He has explained the surgery and what it has achieved. Apparently I am healing as well as can be expected.'

He moved a little, and winced minutely. Kirk noticed tight lines on his face that were suggestive of pain repressed with great difficulty. Spock caught his look of concern.

'I would have thought that after thousands of years of medical evolution, the good doctor would have been able to treat my condition without breaking my ribs and cutting a hole in my chest,' the Vulcan said darkly.

'The good doctor had about five minutes to get in there and save your life,' came an acerbic response from the doorway. 'And the good doctor thought that breaking a few ribs was a pretty good payoff for giving you a heart that actually keeps your brain and muscles supplied with oxygen. It's not my fault your heart's in such a damn stupid place.'

Spock started at the voice, turning quickly to the door before remembering yet again that it was painful to move so quickly. It was obvious to Kirk from the startled look on his face that the kylanil was still suppressing the Vulcan's telepathic sense, and he had had no idea that McCoy had come in.

'I am grateful to you, McCoy,' Spock said with a moment of unusual sincerity to the doctor. 'But I am also in a great deal of pain. The kylanil interferes with my ability to control my responses.'

McCoy glanced up at the readings above Spock's head, then checked the chart that hung at the end of his bed.

'I thought the kylanil was advisable while that woman's on the ship,' he said. 'I want to try to ease you off it later – if you manage without it, you can try a healing trance. But you're due for some more painkillers, if you want them. That's what I came in for – that, and I heard voices and assumed Jim was awake. Do you mind Jim staying while I check the wound?'

Spock shook his head, and lay still as McCoy folded back the blanket and carefully lifted the bandage away from the Vulcan's chest. Kirk sat up to watch, and winced to see the heavy bruising that had blossomed about the ten inch wound in Spock's side. The incision itself was almost healed, thanks to a combination of McCoy's skill and equipment, but the bruising spoke eloquently of the brutality of the surgery the doctor had been forced to perform.

'You're doing well,' McCoy muttered, running a scanner over the wound. 'You shouldn't have any more bleeding, but I need to change this anyway,' he said, replacing the blood-soiled pad with a fresh one. 'And I'll up the painkiller. You may feel a little woozy, but – '

'Is _*woozy_* a medical term, Doctor?' Spock asked with a raised eyebrow.

'You know, I've missed your peculiar form of medical critique,' McCoy muttered sardonically. 'Let me put it another way. It may make you less inclined to argue with and criticise your treatment.'

Kirk laughed suddenly, and both Spock and McCoy turned to look at him with questioning expressions.

'*_I've*_ missed this, believe it or not,' he smiled. 'You two sniping at each other like children. It's good to be home.'

'Children, Captain?' Spock asked in an insulted tone that perfectly matched McCoy's expression.

'Children,' Kirk said firmly. 'But like I said, I've missed it. Bones, are you done with your check-up?' he asked.

'I'm done,' McCoy nodded as he filled in details on Spock's chart. 'Let me guess. You want some privacy?'

Kirk shrugged, then glanced at Spock briefly, a slight flush rising to his cheeks.

'I'll never get used to this,' the doctor muttered darkly, making for the door. 'I'll put up a 'do not disturb' sign. Just – don't tire him with too much talking, Jim. He needs his rest.'

'Of course, Doctor,' Kirk said meekly, then added sincerely, 'Thank you, Bones.'

He glanced at Spock again. The Vulcan's eyes were focussed intently on an apparently fascinating part of the ceiling.

McCoy left the room without further comment. Kirk waited a beat, then slipped off his temporary bed and regained the chair beside Spock.

'So,' he said in a low voice, curling his fingers about Spock's warm hand. 'How are you really feeling?'

Spock looked at him with raised eyebrows. 'As I told you. Unwell, but relieved. Impatient, perhaps, to get better.'

'I don't blame you,' Kirk smiled ruefully. 'God, Spock, I thought I'd lost you ten times over in the journey from Malker to here.'

Spock's forehead creased. 'I believed the _Enterprise_ was scheduled to rendezvous with us _*at_* Malker?'

'Yes,' Kirk nodded. 'But then you began to deteriorate – don't you remember, Spock?'

Spock shook his head slowly. 'In pieces, perhaps…'

'You were pretty out of it,' Kirk smiled. 'I thought it might take a few minutes off the rendezvous time if we got to the shuttle, not to mention removing the awkwardness of explaining why a Federation Starship was in orbit of Malker, making unauthorised transportations from the surface. It's much easier to slip a shuttle under the radar than an Constitution class starship.'

'That is true,' Spock nodded, choosing to ignore the captain's inaccurate description of Malker's planetary defences.

'I'd just about decided to get to the shuttle anyway when you started to crash again, so I got you stable enough to travel, then got you and all the medical gear to the aircar. We must've shaved about two hours off the rendezvous time – and you're alive now, so I guess it was worth it.'

'Evidently,' Spock nodded, meeting Kirk's eyes with a sparkle in his gaze.

Kirk sighed, putting a hand to Spock's shoulder and stroking his thumb along the straight length of his collarbone.

'When this is all over, Spock – when you're better – I'm going to lock us both in my quarters, and we're going to indulge in some _*serious*_bonding,' he said intently.

Spock looked momentarily alarmed.

'Are you proposing marriage, Captain?' he asked.

'Not _*that_* kind of bonding!' Kirk grinned. 'The kind of bonding that involves lying very close and very naked in bed, and interrupting ourselves with nothing but bouts of vigorous intercourse.'

Spock regarded him with muted amusement.

'That seems an equitable plan,' he said. But then the lightness in his eyes faded, to be replaced with a more solemn expression. 'You speak of _*when this is over_,* Jim. But I imagine I am still a convicted, escaped criminal in the eyes of the Federation,' he said, with a hint of worry behind the words. 'A criminal who was destined to be executed. When this is over you may find yourself visiting me in a Federation prison – or worse.'

'*_No_.* We're working on that,' Kirk promised him. 'I've got some top brass on my side. We've got some leeway, time-wise.'

'That is gratifying,' Spock said, turning his eyes toward the door. It was obvious to Kirk that all he wanted was to return to his post on the bridge. He had been caught into too many prisons, both real and metaphorical, for far too long.

'Besides, I've got to get that ass Stevenson out of your chair,' Kirk muttered under his breath, hardly meaning to say the words aloud.

'That ass Stevenson?' Spock repeated curiously. 'You are referring to the Science replacement, Commander Stevenson?'

'Yes,' Kirk said in a hard voice. 'I get the feeling he's going to hang on to that post tooth and nail. I'll have to prise his claws out of the console.'

Spock raised an eyebrow at the venom in Kirk's voice. 'The _Enterprise_ is usually considered an elite assignment,' he said reasonably.

'If he wants to hang on to a position here he's going the wrong way about it,' Kirk said darkly. 'He practically said he wanted to see you returned to Malker and executed.'

Spock pressed his lips together, suppressing whatever reaction he felt to that possibility so deeply that it was obvious how much the idea haunted him.

'That's not going to happen,' Kirk said firmly. 'I would never allow it to happen. We've got our best piece of evidence – we've got that woman on the ship. One way or another that will exonerate you.'

'Did you allow Ms Arkania to regain consciousness at any point during our journey?' Spock asked curiously, grateful for any opportunity to move away from the subject of execution. 'Is she aware of where she is?'

'No,' Kirk said concisely. 'I like her better unconscious. But I guess she'll be fit to take on an Andorian pit snake when she discovers what happened.'

Spock pressed his lips together in a suppressed smile.

'Do you intend to interview the woman?' he asked.

'N-o,' Kirk said slowly. 'Not just yet. I thought I might take another tack…'

'Another tack?' Spock asked, intrigued.

Kirk smiled. 'I thought I might dip my toe into some politics,' he said evasively. 'And see how the water feels.'

Spock sighed, resting his head back on the pillow. 'I don't believe I will ever quite understand human metaphor,' he said in a long-suffering tone.

******

Back in the privacy of McCoy's office Kirk found himself putting through yet another long-distance call, this time aimed back to the planet that they had just left rather than forward towards Earth. The call was answered by a grey-haired man that Kirk only vaguely recognised, wearing drab but smart clothing and a complacent expression that sat oddly on a face lined with years of stress. He looked, like many politicians of Kirk's experience, as if he was only one stressful event away from a heart attack that would be explained away to the press as slight indigestion.

'Mr Kirk,' the man said with an unreal smile. 'So good to hear from another member of – '

'I wouldn't waste your charms,' Kirk cut across him quickly. 'Do you know who I am, Mr Sendar?'

'Well, of course, you are – ' There was a brief pause as he referred surreptitiously to something offscreen, then he looked back with rather more anxiety showing through his façade. 'You are Captain Kirk, the commanding officer in charge of that – rather awkward – '

'The officer in charge of Commander Spock, who was accused and convicted of murder on your planet,' Kirk said plainly. 'Mr Sendar, I'm very anxious to discuss that case with you.'

'Well, surely you'd be better contacting a member of the party in governmental power,' he said quickly, looking as if he was about to open another channel to the correct department.

'*_You*_, Mr Sendar,' Kirk said firmly. 'You are the man I want to talk to. I have your niece on board, Mr Sendar.'

'My niece,' the man repeated blankly, as if the entire concept of such relations was alien to him.

'Your niece,' Kirk repeated in a hard voice. 'A Ms Malis Arkania. She _*is_* your niece,' he said firmly.

'Ah – yes,' the man said, with a momentary blanching of his cheeks that told Kirk all he needed to know. 'Malis, of course. I – barely have anything to do with the girl. She's having a tour of your ship, is she?'

'She's having a tour of a one-roomed cell in our brig,' Kirk said in an uncompromising tone. 'But she already knows what the inside of a prison is like, doesn't she? She spent plenty of time visiting Commander Spock when he was waiting to be executed.'

The man faltered, and then said, 'I – er – I wouldn't know anything about her going to the prison,' he began.

'Apart from the fact that you went there with her,' Kirk said sharply. 'And that you stood there and watched her go into Spock's cell and use her telepathic – skills – to enter his mind and torture him to make him believe he had murdered a woman in cold blood.'

'You – you have no proof,' the man sputtered. 'You couldn't possibly – '

'I have Malis Arkania, in my brig on my ship,' Kirk said succinctly. He toyed for a moment with something on the desk, and then looked up again. 'And I have Commander Spock, alive and _compus mentus_, just two rooms away from where I am now,' he added in a hard tone.

'That's – impossible,' the man spluttered, suddenly seeming to lose a degree of rigidity from his spine. 'Commander Spock was executed! I watched the execution. I saw him die!'

'You _*thought_* you saw him die,' Kirk corrected. 'What you actually saw was him falling into an extremely deep state of coma in response to the drugs that had entered his system. Here,' he said, depressing a button on the desk. 'I'm sending you a packet with clear evidence that Commander Spock is alive, and also that we are holding your niece.'

There was a long pause as Sendar's eyes moved to something offscreen, and appeared to be studying it intently.

'This – kind of thing could be faked,' he said eventually, but his voice had very little strength in it.

'It could,' Kirk shrugged. 'But it wasn't. We have plenty of evidence, Mr Sendar, that points to _*you,_* as a member of the Malkerian opposition party, organising a murder and framing my first officer in order to raise popular suspicion against the Federation and benefit your own party.'

He stared unwaveringly at the screen. He had perhaps overstated the amount of evidence that they held, since essentially their only evidence was Spock, and a very unwilling witness, but if he had judged Sendar correctly, the man needed very little to tip him over from discomfort to outright panic.

'She – didn't commit the murder,' he blurted abruptly. 'I never ordered a Malkerian citizen to commit murder. She used her Ankavite ability to persuade the Vulcan to do it. She never laid a hand on anyone. I didn't order her to – '

Kirk smiled, although the news that Spock _*had_* physically committed the crime felt like a blow in the gut, no matter how little responsibility the Vulcan had had for his actions.

'Are you admitting, Mr Sendar, that Malis Arkania compelled Spock to kill the woman, using mental control that he could not possibly resist?' he asked, keeping his true feelings hidden with a skill that even a Vulcan would admire.

'She did,' he blurted hastily. 'It was nothing to do with my party. She was always unstable. She's an Ankavite, for God's sake!'

'And she tortured him mentally in the prison, to make him believe he had acted completely on his own?' Kirk continued relentlessly.

'She was mad!' Sendar babbled. 'I had to help her – she's my blood. I couldn't let her be taken to the execution chamber. The Vulcan was condemned, and I helped her visit him to be sure that he – didn't challenge the sentence. That was it. It was nothing to do with the party!'

'I have evidence,' Kirk lied baldly, 'that undeniably links your party's aims, and you yourself, to the planning and incitement of that murder. And the penalties for political corruption are severe on your planet, aren't they? Your party put most of them into place itself.'

Sendar's face blanched even further. 'What do you want, Captain?' he asked in a thin voice.

Kirk leaned closer to the screen. 'I want a complete pardon for Commander Spock,' he said in a low, serious voice. 'An exoneration for any culpability in the crime. Blame the entire thing on your niece if you like – I really don't care. But Spock must be pardoned, and the Federation must be told.'

The man's fingers moved nervously on the desk.

'He'll have the pardon,' he said quickly. 'I know the high judge. I'll have it by – ' He glanced to the side. ' – by noon, tomorrow. And my niece – '

'Oh, I'm keeping her,' Kirk said darkly.

'Keep her, keep her,' the man urged him. 'If she comes back here, who knows what she'll say. She's – she's unstable. The papers… Captain – ' He looked appealingly at Kirk. 'Captain, do I have your word this will go no further?'

Kirk smiled. 'If Spock is exonerated, and made completely safe from Malkerian persecution, then the Malkerian government will hear nothing about your involvement from me,' he promised faithfully. 'You have – ' He glanced briefly at the chronometer that sat on the doctor's desk, mentally translating ship time into Malkerian. ' – eighteen hours to bring me that pardon. If I don't get it by then, your government and the Federation authorities get full information on exactly how you tried to sabotage friendly relations and kill two people in order to get your party into power. Do you understand?'

'Completely,' the man said, suddenly looking ten years older, and very tired. 'I understand completely, Captain. Good day.'

The communication died, and Kirk leant back in the chair with his hands clasped behind his head, a smile spreading over his face.

'Well, Jim,' McCoy said from the doorway in a mock-scared voice. 'Remind me never to cross you!'

Kirk jumped, and glowered at the doctor. 'Bones, don't you ever knock?'

'When I'm coming into my own office?' McCoy asked pointedly, coming further into the room. 'Not often, no. So Mr Sendar got scared, eh?' he asked.

Kirk grinned. 'I just hope he doesn't drop dead from stress before he gets that pardon,' he said, his face turning seriously.

McCoy shook his head. 'Long-range diagnosis isn't the easiest thing,' he said, 'but our Mr Sendar looks like he's got a few years in him yet. I'd give him at least a decade before the stress kills him.'

'You going to put money on that?' Kirk asked.

McCoy shook his head. 'I never put money on medical outcomes,' he said in a silken voice.

'Doctor's ethics?' Kirk asked with a smile.

'No,' McCoy shrugged. 'I just know how easy it is to lose.'

'Thanks,' Kirk said acerbically.

The intercom whistled, and he put his hand lazily to the button.

'Kirk here,' he said, expecting a call for McCoy.

Lieutenant Palmer's blonde head appeared on the screen, for a moment focussed on her own boards, before she looked up into the camera.

'Sir,' she said with a tone of urgency. 'Stevenson just contacted Command. He told them about Commander Spock, and recommended they send a Fleet Justice unit to intercept the ship!'

'Dammit!' Kirk snapped, looking briefly to McCoy in alarm. 'Dammit, dammit…'

'Captain,' Palmer interrupted quickly. 'Sir, I know it was against orders – but – the communication was voice-only, and when I realised what he was going to say I put out static on the channel at the receiving end and I… I had Mr Scott acknowledge the message instead. He's pretty good at mimicry, sir…'

'Lieutenant Palmer – ' Kirk began in a rough voice. As alarm spread over her features he continued, 'If I was up there on the bridge I'd kiss you. I can't give you official recognition for ingenuity like that – but I can give you double leave the next time shore leave comes up.'

Relief chased away alarm. 'Thank you, sir,' she said with a broad smile. 'I'm just glad I can help, sir. And, Captain,' she continued cautiously.

'Yes, Lieutenant?' Kirk asked.

'Well – I think Commander Stevenson must have known you wouldn't want him calling off-ship,' she said. 'Calls like that always require permission of the captain or first officer, or the discretionary permission of the communications officer. As far as I can make out he tampered with the computer in his quarters to bypass the restrictions, and contacted Command without proper permission. He – broke rule 77b regarding spy transmissions, sir.'

Kirk rubbed his thumb over his chin. It was a stretch to say that Stevenson had sent a spy transmission, but still, if one were to follow the letter of the law…

'There's a rule in there somewhere against tampering with the main computer, too,' he mused. 'And each private terminal is an extension of the main computer…'

'Subsection 3a regards altering the communication privileges of private terminals,' Palmer said helpfully.

'And meddling with the main computer has a whole section of its own,' McCoy added in a satisfied voice, leaning in towards Kirk. 'Section 54, I believe. The most severe punishment being twenty years in a Federation rehabilitation centre.'

Kirk stared at him, astounded.

'Bones, since when were you an expert in the rule book?' he asked.

'Since Lieutenant Commander Finney botched up the computer to blame you for his death,' he said acerbically. 'Oh, and since Mr Spock altered the computers of both Starbase 11 and the _Enterprise_ to smuggle Captain Pike to Talos 4. Sitting through two trials involving the lives or careers of your closest friends tells you a lot about the law – or at least, it should do, if you listen properly,' he added.

'Well,' Kirk said slowly. 'Thank you again, Lieutenant Palmer,' he nodded toward the screen. 'I want Stevenson's communications privileges cut off, and have him confined to quarters. I'll explain why to him later,' he said smugly. He cut the communication, and looked up at McCoy. 'Well, Bones,' he said. 'It looks like this day's getting better and better.'

'It certainly does,' McCoy grinned. 'Spock's doing well, too. He's sleeping now, but he's healing like – well, like a Vulcan,' he shrugged. 'Fancy drinking to that, Jim?' he asked, nodding towards the locked cabinet behind Kirk's head. The ranks of coloured bottles were obvious through the frosted glass doors.

'I'll take a little Romulan ale, if you're offering,' Kirk nodded. 'Malker makes a good spirit, but I've missed the old traditionals. Let's drink to more and more better days – and the ability of Vulcans to scare you half to death one moment, then be up on their feet as hale as ever the next. Oh – and to the eternally weaselling nature of politicians, too!'


	15. Chapter 14

14.

The next time that Spock woke it was with an odd, warm sensation in the back of his mind that he could not quite quantify. And then he realised – it was a mental awareness of Jim, there in his mind. It was muted and tenuous, but it was _*there_*.

'Feel it, huh?' Kirk asked with a smile as Spock opened his eyes. 'Bones wound the kylanil back a little. She's still trying hard to get to you, but she's a long way away physically, and Bones has managed to ease it off just enough for you to have a better awareness in your mind.'

Spock looked at him, and almost smiled. 'It is gratifying,' he said in a low voice. He reached out his hand. 'To feel you, in here, as well as here,' he said as he closed his hand around Jim's.

'And how's the wound?' Kirk asked, touching his own side as he nodded towards Spock's.

'Much improved, I think,' Spock said, stirring a little in the bed and assessing his range of movement. 'I believe I could even sit up.'

'Maybe you should consult with Bones on that one,' Kirk said nervously.

Spock looked at him directly. 'I don't believe I need to consult with the good doctor on whether I may raise my torso by thirty or forty degrees.'

He began to push himself up on his arms, and Kirk reached out quickly to put a hand to his shoulder.

'If you're going to sit up, let's do it the easy way,' he said, putting a firm pressure on the Vulcan's shoulder until he lay back on the mattress. Kirk touched his finger to a button beside the bed, and the upper part of the mattress began to rise, lifting Spock's torso with no effort at all. 'How's that?' he asked.

'It is fine,' Spock assured him. He looked away from Kirk, and his brow furrowed in concentration. 'I can feel the woman,' he said after a moment of silence, the concentration still obvious in his face. 'I can sense her faintly, very tenuous… I believe she is awake – and angry,' he added significantly.

Kirk grinned. 'Well, that doesn't exactly surprise me,' he said. 'I doubt a few days ago the bitch expected to be locked in the brig on a Federation ship.'

'I think she has, at least, been distracted from her purpose of assaulting my mind,' Spock said, with relief visible through his entire body. 'I sense no direct attack.'

'That's one good thing, then,' Kirk said. He watched the Vulcan, recognising the distracted expression on his face. 'What is it, Spock?' he asked.

Spock blinked, then turned to him. 'I must admit to a fascination with the woman, and with her mental ability,' he said.

'Spock, she _*tortured_* you!' Kirk said incredulously. 'She used you as a tool in a plan to commit a terrible crime.'

'And yet in a way I can barely remember,' Spock said, still with a look of intrigue on his face.

Kirk regarded him silently for a moment with a blooming apprehension in his chest. He knew Spock well enough to know that when something fascinated him there was no keeping him from it – but in the last couple of weeks that tight feeling of concern he felt for his friend had deepened into something that seemed to tie about his heart and begin to constrict it whenever Spock developed an interest in something dangerous.

'Spock,' he said in a low, warning tone.

Spock blinked, and rested his head back onto the pillow.

'I sense that you want to tell me something,' he said, turning his face towards Kirk with his eyebrows raised in a question.

Kirk smiled. It was obvious that Spock was changing the subject, but the Vulcan had reminded him of the very real relief he had felt after his conversation with Sendar.

'I spoke to Achevian Sendar yesterday, after you fell asleep,' he said, still with a smile on his face. 'He's a very scared, very stressed man. He's promised that you will have a full pardon by this evening.'

Spock seemed to relax by another degree, exhaling a breath that seemed to have been held in his lungs for weeks.

'I have learnt not to – count my chickens, as you would say. But this time tomorrow, if what you say comes to pass, I may be close to an emotional reaction,' he said with tight control in his voice.

Kirk grinned. 'I thought you'd learned a lot about emotional reactions in the last few weeks,' he said.

'I have learnt a lot about *_certain* _emotional reactions,' Spock nodded with a well-practised mixture of gravity overlaying impishness. 'But I think this will teach me a good deal about the emotion known as relief.'

'Yeah, I've been learning a lot about relief too,' Kirk smiled. 'And it's a very good feeling. One of the best.'

******

Relief was an emotion that was apparently far from the mind of the woman held in cell number 3 in the ship's brig. Her eyes fixed balefully on the forcefield door, she sat on her bunk in silence, watching and waiting. She had had a blue-shirted doctor visiting her, tight-lipped with repressed hatred for her. She had had Kirk visit her, with nothing repressed about _*his_* hatred. But most of her time since waking had been spent in silent solitude, watching the shimmering forcefield, and tracking the occasionally passing guards with her eyes.

When she heard a low, masculine voice in the corridor outside, she stiffened.

'It's all right, Lieutenant. I am quite capable.'

She knew that voice. She heard it in her dreams.

When the Vulcan came into sight he was not wearing the same sleek uniform as the others she had seen so far on this ship. Instead he was wearing some kind of loose blue overalls over a tight black undershirt that reminded her curiously of the clothes he had worn as a prisoner. But now, she was the prisoner, and he was standing on the other side of a locked door.

She regarded him without speaking. He moved as if in great pain, and he looked ill. Through all of his time in the prison he had never looked like this – not until the moment of his supposed death. But his illness now was not surprising. She remembered his collapse on her doorstep, and the sliver of satisfaction that she had felt as she saw him slump and grow somehow small and weak. She knew his heart had been pushed almost to the point of giving up – and a very large part of her wanted to give his frail body the tiny push that would topple it over into oblivion.

'That will not be possible,' he said in a voice of calm control, his dark eyes boring into hers without wavering.

Yes, she knew that voice, but she had never heard it before with this measure of confidence, without the tremor of fear and bewilderment that she had drawn from him over the weeks. But how – ?

'Your telepathy is very strong, but uncontrolled in proportion to its strength,' he said softly, with no more anger or disgust in his face than she had ever seen in him. 'I can hear almost every thought in your head, despite the medication which is allowing me to control the more – brutal – projections of your thoughts. My mind is now a filter, rather than an open container. I allow only that which I wish to allow to penetrate.'

She continued to stare at him, strangely reluctant to speak despite the fact that he could tell what she meant to say before she said it. It was difficult to speak when her entire mind was warring between attacking him and blocking him.

'I am not your prey now,' he said calmly. 'And neither are you mine. I haven't come to harm you.'

'Then why have you come?' she asked.

He was silent for a moment, then said as if it was a guilty admission, 'Curiosity, perhaps. You have played a great part in my life and my proposed death – but I remember very little. I sense enormous hatred in your mind, but prior to your deliberate invasion of my thoughts I had done nothing to harm you.'

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

'Do you need to have done something for me to hate you?'

He blinked, as if taken aback. 'I would say that is a cultural axiom.'

'My uncle needed a way to persuade the voting population to reject your Federation. He hired me to help him,' she said simply.

Spock blinked again, and shook his head a little, as if accepting that it was impossible for him to totally understand her alien thought processes. That knowledge in itself gave her a warm satisfaction.

'Then your assault was based on nothing more than the motives of business,' he said. 'Does hatred play a large part in Malkerian business dealings?'

She smiled at the look of non-understanding on his face. It was pleasing to be rejected by this alien, ordered, black and white mind.

'Hatred plays a part in the life of every Ankavite,' she said. 'Hatred is how we channel our thoughts. Hatred is a conduit.'

'Fascinating,' the Vulcan said, with every appearance of meaning it. 'A sect of society entirely devoted to negative emotion…'

'If you want to be fascinated by it,' she said, 'that's your concern. It is simply the way that we are.'

He took half a step backwards, almost as if he had decided to walk away from this person who confused him so much. Then he took in a deep breath, and turned back toward her, locking his hands behind his back with a minute wince of pain that tightened the edges of his mouth.

'I must indulge myself in another area of curiosity,' he said, with a face that had lost any trace of feeling on it. She could feel his emotional suppression like a blanket of cold over his thoughts. 'Was the woman in the alley killed by _*my_* hand?'

She smiled a slow, satisfied smile, leaning back to regard him. This unemotional blanket had been stretched so tight to cover a world of apprehension in his mind.

'Yes,' she said with great gratification. 'I caught your mind with mine, and implanted my hatred in you, and watched you beat the life out of that worthless piece of gutter filth. I lived for days on that action.'

'Lived for days?' he faltered, obviously grasping onto that one sentence to distract his mind from her other words.

'I don't _*eat_* emotion,' she said with a dismissive laugh. 'I'm not like one of your Vindaran cloud beings. But you don't understand how something like that _*sustains_* me, mentally. That feeling, that sense of something jittering in your head, prodding you with needles in your brain – it just – goes away.'

She broke off, looking up abruptly, realising that she had said too much in front of this detestable alien man. He was staring at her as if someone had suddenly opened a book and shown him something he had never seen before. He opened his mouth briefly, stared at her a little longer, then turned, and abruptly, painfully, walked away from the cell.

******

Spock encountered something akin to a human explosion as he reached the end of the security corridor. McCoy was first with his remonstrations – Jim was silent, his lips pressed together in taut worry.

'Spock, what the hell do you think you were doing?' the doctor exploded, gesturing up the corridor at the cell Spock had just walked away from. 'What on earth made you think you could leave sickbay? You're recovering from major heart surgery, goddammit!'

Jim had begun to speak too now, as if McCoy's ferocity had released his own need to berate the Vulcan, and Spock shook his head, unable in his exhaustion to quite separate the two barrages of concerned anger as they were vented at him. The more tired he became, the harder it was to block the constant, invasive attack of the woman in the cell behind him.

'Gentlemen,' he said tiredly, holding up his hands and then realising that that range of movement was not available to him. 'Dr McCoy, I am quite willing to return to sickbay. Bed is a most attractive option at this – '

His knees folded, and Jim caught him.

He came back to himself in sickbay, with McCoy tucking a blanket firmly over him and saying, 'No, Jim, he's fine. He just shouldn't have been out of bed. I should put a lock on that damn door…'

As Spock stirred and winced the doctor said tartly, 'Sore, isn't it? That's what you get for agitating a ten inch wound in your chest by getting out of bed and going for a stroll less than two days after heart surgery.'

'I admit – my actions – may have been unwise,' Spock said with difficulty. 'But they were – illuminating. Doctor, would it be possible – for me to have some of – your excellent painkiller?'

McCoy's look of grim anger relented for a moment, and he picked up a hypospray and released its contents into Spock's arm.

'Better?' he asked grudgingly.

'Much,' Spock nodded, his breathing suddenly becoming far more relaxed.

'Need me to up the kylanil?' the doctor asked as the Vulcan pressed a hand to his temple.

Spock shook his head. 'No. Her assault is manageable.'

'How was seeing her illuminating?' Kirk asked curiously, coming closer to the Vulcan and looking down straight into his eyes. 'What did she say, Spock?'

'I learnt something very interesting,' Spock said slowly. 'Or – in truth, I learnt two things. I learnt – that I myself killed the vagrant woman in the alley.'

'Yes,' Kirk said reluctantly.

'You knew this, Jim?' Spock asked gravely.

Kirk reached out to press his hand over Spock's, ignoring McCoy's self-conscious reaction of suddenly looking away from the pair. Spock let him hold it, more for Jim's comfort than his own.

'Only since yesterday, after you fell asleep,' Jim said with a nod. 'When I spoke to Sendar, he told me.'

Spock nodded. 'Yes,' he said with pursed lips. 'Ms Arkania told me the same. She – influenced my mind – controlled it, if you will, in order to force me to commit the crime.'

'Spock, there's plenty of precedence in law for mind control,' Kirk said reassuringly. 'She's admitted it, and Sendar's admitted it. It wasn't your fault.'

'No,' Spock said gravely. 'No, I have no fears from a legal standpoint. But – ' His eyes met Jim's with a depth of feeling in them that made Kirk want to wrap his arms about him despite McCoy's presence in the room. 'I would very much rather that it had not been _*my_* hand that committed the crime – that the woman in the alley had not seen _*me_* as her murderer.'

Kirk was silent. He understood Spock's feelings perfectly, and he knew there was nothing he could say to ease his guilt.

'What was the other thing you learnt, Spock?' he asked softly, changing the subject.

Spock pressed his lips together, then exhaled.

'It would seem that Ankavites – or at least, that Ms Arkania – finds a certain degree of mental relief in sensing violence and fear and hatred in the minds of others. Apparently she is tormented with uncontrollable sensations in her mind – very much like one experiencing drug withdrawal or some form of mental disturbance, I would say – unless she has her fill of these negative emotions from others' minds.'

'You're saying she's a – a negativity addict?' McCoy asked in amazement.

'I am not sure what I am saying she is,' Spock said gravely. 'It would be impossible to tell without extensive psychological and telepathic studies. But it is undeniable that without causing a certain amount of negative emotion in others, and sensing that emotion, she finds it very difficult to exist in mental comfort.'

'Is that – an _*excuse_,* Spock?' Kirk asked incredulously.

Spock shook his head. 'Not an excuse, no. Not in the way that you mean it, Jim. But it is – an explanation of sorts. Something that makes it easier to reconcile myself with the drastic impact she has had on my life. And it may make treatment of, or defence against, her condition easier if she is condemned to a penal institution for her crimes.'

'Not if – *_when,_*' Kirk said firmly.

Spock gave a small tilt of his head, the equivalent of a shrug.

'Perhaps,' he nodded. 'She is – a curious individual. Very much an individual, locked within herself, concerned only for the way anything outside impacts upon herself. I would expect that the mode of custody would be based on whether she is deemed mentally intact.'

'Well, maybe,' Kirk mumbled.

He did not want to admit a possibility of anything other than long and miserable incarceration for the woman. But at least Spock had discovered something useful to himself. Kirk had felt a lingering tension in the Vulcan since Jim had uncovered his memories of the mental assaults he had suffered in his prison cell, and that seemed to have diffused a little with this explanation of the woman's actions.

The door slid open, and Nurse Chapel looked tentatively through.

'Captain,' she said softly. 'A call for you, sir, from Minister Achevian Sendar – in Dr McCoy's office.'

Her gaze slipped briefly to Spock, and then abruptly back to the captain, as if she was mentally chastising herself for a lapse in control. Spock had not seen her in his room since he first awoke on the ship, despite the regularity of nurses checking on his condition. She did not look at him again – her eyes were fixed resolutely on Kirk as he leapt to his feet and hurried from the room after her.

'I regret any – difficulty – that my relationship with the captain may cause,' Spock said in a low voice to McCoy, his eyes focussed on the opposite wall rather than the doctor's face.

'Yeah, well,' McCoy said awkwardly. 'It's bound to cause some – hiccups. You're – surprisingly popular on this ship, Spock.'

Spock allowed himself to look at the doctor now, one eyebrow raised sardonically.

'Surprisingly, Doctor?'

McCoy chuckled.

They fell into silence, and Spock's mind turned back to the reason why Jim had been called out of the room. The captain was very possibly discussing matters that would have a drastic effect on Spock's future, that Spock himself had absolutely no control over. He found himself holding his breath in bursts – and then realising that he was holding his breath and drawing in fresh air, chiding himself for the emotionalism of the reaction and trying to conceal it from McCoy.

Finally the doctor glanced at him, and smiled reassuringly.

'I'm sure luck and hope are illogical, Spock,' he said softly, 'but you've got a lot of both on your side this time.'

Spock looked at him momentarily as if he did not understand the doctor – and then dropped the façade, and nodded.

'Thank you, McCoy,' he said awkwardly. 'I appreciate the sentiment, human as it is.'

'Jim's human,' the doctor muttered. '_*All_* human.'

'Yes, Doctor,' Spock said sagely. 'Indeed he is.'

McCoy flushed again awkwardly, and looked away. Inside, Spock smiled. Illogical as it was, it was amusing to tacitly mention his relationship with Jim to the doctor and then observe the reaction.

******

When Kirk finally came back in through the door it was obvious that he had something momentous to announce. Spock watched him with an intense gaze, trying to read his expression. The captain stood silently for a second with his hands clasped behind his back – and then a smile crept onto his face.

'Well, Commander Spock,' he said, with the emphasis very much on the word _*commander._*

Spock looked at him with one eyebrow raised in question.

'Completely exonerated by the Malkerian justice system,' Kirk said, allowing his grin to split his face. 'They've blamed everything on _*an unidentified, rogue Ankavite_.*'

'Talk about sweeping things under the carpet,' McCoy said, the immense relief on his face turning into a broad smile. He looked up quickly at Spock. 'Not that that's a bad thing, this time. Thank God for politicians and all of their double-dealing, underhand manipulations.'

'Underhand manipulations caused this situation,' Spock reminded him.

The relief felt like something physical in his body – as if McCoy had given him a massive dose of painkiller and muscle-relaxant all in one – but he kept it carefully from his voice while he spoke to the doctor. After a moment he turned to his captain, and met his eyes. There was a world of warm relief and affection in Jim's gaze, that would surely be translated into something more physical were it not for the doctor's presence.

'Thank you, Jim,' he said sincerely, letting his eyes say what his words could not. 'But – if they are claiming the Ankavite is _*unidentified_* – what of Malis Arkania?'

'That's partly why I was so long,' Kirk explained as he sat down by the bed. 'I contacted Commodore Statten as soon as I'd got through with Sendar. They'd already received a communication from Malker exonerating you, but the Malkerians were also very firm that they didn't want the woman back. I guess they think that if she's not there, she can't reveal what _*really_* happened. Starfleet doesn't actually have any evidence, or the jurisdiction, to prosecute her for the murder on Malker – but Statten is confident that there's enough evidence to get her for an attack on a Federation citizen – namely you, Spock – which will put her safely away somewhere for a long time. He tells me telepathic assault is taken pretty seriously in Federation courts nowadays.'

'Indeed,' Spock said gravely. 'And – am I to take it that my commission has been reactivated?'

'It's _*being_* reactivated,' Kirk told him. 'You'd been classified as deceased in all Federation records, and these things take time to sort out.'

'Understandably,' Spock murmured.

'I have permission to temporarily reinstate you in your position on the ship, pending official confirmation.'

'Then Commander Stevenson – '

Kirk smiled grimly, realising he had not told Spock about Commander Stevenson's attempt to turn him in to the Federation justice system.

'Commander Stevenson bit off a bit more than he could chew in his attempts to hang on to his place on this ship,' he said. 'He misused communications to try to shop you to Fleet Justice – but Palmer intercepted the transmission before it could get anywhere. I can't really take any action against him for that – at least, not without coming out of it seeming hopelessly biased – but he's being reassigned – to a fleet mining outfit. The nearest starbase is sending a shuttle to take the two of them – Arkania into the starbase brig pending a further decision on her future, and Stevenson to Angar 7.'

McCoy grinned. 'I can't think of a better place for him, Jim. God, he made this place miserable while you two were away, lording it over everyone he could.'

'Bones, I never thought you'd be glad to have Spock back above you in the line of command,' Kirk said mischievously, glancing between the Vulcan and the doctor.

'Well,' McCoy muttered, apparently unable to think of an apt retort. He looked briefly between Kirk and Spock, and sighed self-consciously. 'Well,' he began. 'Seeing that you're comfortable and happy, Spock, I'll leave you alone for now – as long as you promise no more excursions out of sickbay. I've got those kidney transplants almost matured, and I want you well enough in the next few days to take the operation. In two weeks you could be good as new – if you stop running out on me.'

'I am quite content here for now,' Spock promised.

McCoy looked at him hard, registering that the Vulcan had neatly avoided making any commitments. But he nodded anyway, and stalked out of the room, leaving Spock and the captain alone.

'Well, Commander Spock,' Kirk said with a glint in his eye, as soon as the door had closed.

'I believe you have already said that, _*Captain,_*' Spock pointed out, matching the glint in his own eyes.

Kirk grinned.

'How does it feel to be a free man?' he asked, leaning closer.

Spock touched a hand tentatively to the wound in his side. 'I am not certain I can be classified as a free man until I have left the care of Dr McCoy,' he pointed out, turning his head on his pillow to meet Jim's hazel eyes again. 'But – it is gratifying to be where I belong, legitimately, with no fear of removal.'

Kirk's thumb stroked softly down his cheek, sending a shiver from the back of Spock's neck and down through his spine.

'Two weeks, Spock,' he said in a low voice. 'I'm looking forward to you being as good as new.'

'As good as new – and perhaps better than that,' Spock said meaningfully. Jim's face was so close now that he could smell the scent of his breath as it billowed over his face. 'Previous to my recent experiences I could not have allowed this…'

And his lips caught Jim's even as he spoke the last word, moving softly against them in a kiss.

'Two weeks,' Spock promised. 'You needn't be concerned about my rate of recovery. I have a fine motive for obeying McCoy's strictures.'


	16. Epilogue

Epilogue

To all intents and purposes, everything was normal on the ship. Almost normal, at least. No one could tell under his layers of shirt and undershirt that Spock still bore the healing scar from drastic heart surgery, or the more recent, but much less invasive, scar from the kidney transplants. Those had, at least, been performed as a planned and controlled operation rather than emergency surgery. Spock, despite McCoy's admonishments and cautions, insisted that he felt fine – although it was obvious to the eyes of Jim Kirk that the ends of the day and early mornings left him ragged with a tiredness that was not quite normal for Spock. He had not yet been cleared for duty, but of course, being Spock, he was still busying himself with plenty of tasks which could easily be classed as duty.

It had been a pleasure to see both Malis Arkania and Commander Stevenson deported from the ship on the same starbase shuttle. Without the threat of Arkania's attacks the last of the kylanil had been allowed to leave Spock's system two days ago, leaving him finally with a clear and acute telepathic sense that seemed, in the first few days, even stronger than it had been before. He found himself constantly turning, believing Jim to be behind him, when in actuality he was several decks above, on the bridge, and his presence was no more than a warm, buzzing awareness in the back of Spock's mind.

It was late afternoon, ship-time, and Spock stood before the mirror in the bathroom he shared with his captain. This room had never seemed quite so _*shared_* as it did now, now that they had truly _*shared_* the shower and the bath, and now that the locks on the doors were never bolted, and the room provided an easy and private corridor between their adjoining quarters for more than just the occasional visit.

The Vulcan regarded his own face, marking the differences in his appearance from the days before his first beam-down to Malker. His hair was trimmed back to his normal, traditional cut, and superficially he bore little difference to the officer who had stood in this room months ago, before Malker and its politics had intruded so violently into his life. He was, perhaps, a little thinner than he had been, his face rather more lean and lined – but the most marked change was something most illogical, something that he could barely pin down. There was – a warmth, or a light, or – some indefinable life behind his eyes, as if he carried a reflection of Jim everywhere he went. He was perhaps, he had to admit, happy.

He sighed. Acceptance of Jim had to be acceptance of happiness – of emotion, still tightly controlled, but suffused through his mind like a permanent echo of Jim's own thoughts and a relaxation of his own. Most humans would not notice a change in him, but he knew that it was there. Perhaps something similar was the motivation for the occasional smile he had seen his father bestow upon his mother, or the look of warmth that softened his eyes when he looked at her. Perhaps no Vulcan could hold a human so close to them without allowing a mist of emotions to permeate their mind.

He traced a finger over the scar at the left side of his chest. His heart had recovered more quickly than the superficial wound, despite the lingering tiredness as his body clawed back its former vigour. Humans seemed to think that love resided in that beating organ that existed only to pump blood about his body. They were quite wrong. Love was entirely a thing of the mind. If his heart had been required for love over the past few months it would have been quite unfit for the task. Besides, he did not like to think of Dr McCoy's drastic surgery tampering with the receptacle of his feelings for Jim. No. With his mind cleared of kylanil and free for whatever purpose he chose to turn it to, he was certain that all his emotion lived and died in his own mind. His body was only concerned with biological necessities.

He turned at the noise of a door opening in the outer room. With the opening of the door came a stronger awareness of _*Jim_*, and a sudden increase in certain of the biological necessities that were very firmly lodged at the centre of his body. There, perhaps, lay the strongest link between body and mind – the moment that a mental awareness of one particular person could provoke an odd and insistent yearning in his loins to do far more than engage in intellectual intercourse.

He was wearing no more than his uniform trousers, having gone to the bathroom for the specific purpose of a daily check of his healing wounds – but he was certain that the entrant to his quarters was Jim, and no one else. He turned away from the mirror, and went swiftly to the door that led into his red-draped bedroom.

'Spock…'

Jim met him close on the other side of the door, his voice warm with pleasure at the sight of the Vulcan. He stepped forward to him, putting his palms flat on the Vulcan's naked flanks and resting his forehead against Spock's own. With Spock's telepathy firmly restored to normal the gesture was as intimate as a kiss, or perhaps more so, since thoughts and feelings passed silently between them instead of simple sensation.

'You're tired, Jim,' Spock pointed out, breaking the more Vulcan contact and replacing it with a very human kiss.

'Oh, only as tired as I need to be,' Jim said with a smile, pulling his own tops off and flinging them down on the bed, and kicking his boots underneath it. 'A lot to deal with, and I'm the only one who can. That's one of the perils of leaving the ship for so long – and of reinstating an officer believed dead, kicking out his replacement, and smoothing over the diplomatic ripples caused by the whole,' he added with a grin. 'Believe me, I wouldn't replace _*this_* kind of tiredness with any other kind, considering the reasons behind it.'

'Not – *_too*_ tired then,' Spock said meaningfully, letting his dark gaze fall directly on Jim's eyes. They widened a little at the dark, controlled intensity in the Vulcan's look.

'*_Too_* tired?' he echoed, his eyes drifting unconsciously to the bed.

'Convention,' Spock murmured, acting suddenly, pressing his captain away from the bed and against the wall, capturing his wrists in one swift movement with one hand while with the other he worked deftly at the fastening on Jim's trousers. The button and zip seemed to melt away under his touch, and suddenly the warmth of soft, blood-flushed skin was revealed where before the captain had been clothed, and Spock was naked too, the length of his body pressed against him, hardness against hardness.

Spock's hand was moving with inhuman heat, caressing the taut muscles of his buttocks, slipping the yielding fabric of his trousers away from his legs with a foot as if he was perfectly practised at removing men's clothing without the use of his hands. Before he was totally certain of the Vulcan's precise intentions he had been lifted as if he weighed nothing, and his legs were about the Vulcan's waist, gripping at the hotness of his flanks, his back against the red fabric of the wall, his head pressed against it as the Vulcan's kiss melted into his lips. He closed his eyes, yielding to Spock's will, finding gravity rotating about him as his back was laid gently on the carpet, and Spock was kneeling over him, still with Jim's legs about his body, pressing his erection with great gentleness and purpose into him even as his other hand pulsed at the silken heat of Jim's own organ.

Logic melted away. The Vulcan seemed to possess far more than two hands, two lips, as caresses and kisses followed each other in trails over his skin. There was a sharp, millisecond flare of pain followed by gliding, dizzying sensation as Spock's insistent hardness finally found its home and began to move in an inevitable rhythm, his hand matching the movement with Vulcan precision on Jim's own erection, his free fingers finding Jim's face and sinking onto his temple as Spock's thoughts and desire sank and melted into Jim's own until it was impossible to tell whose pleasure was whose.

He came back to himself lying prostrate on the carpet, his body seeming to be sinking into it with perfect exhaustion, and Spock's own hot form laying over his like a blanket, his cheek against Jim's cheek and his panting breath searing over Jim's ear. Spock's heart was beating a regular, healthy rhythm against Jim's side, and his contentment was radiating into Jim's mind like a balm.

'Convention indeed,' Kirk murmured in a voice softened by exhaustion, his eyes drifting against to the unused bed that rose very near to his head. 'Remind me, Mr Spock, that convention will never do.'

'Although,' Spock pointed out, and Kirk was curiously pleased to hear that Spock's voice was as enervated and trembling as his own. 'We actually have a sixty-six point six percent recurring record of using the floor, while the bed – '

A snort of laughter left Kirk's nose. 'We're bed virgins, Spock,' he grinned. 'We'll have to remedy that.'

Spock's head settled a little more firmly against Jim's own, and the captain got the ghost impression of the Vulcan's internal examination, assessing the reaction of his body to his recent effort and finding it satisfactory. The flashes of thought in Spock's mind were so swift and focussed that it was difficult to grasp onto them, but he at least gained a clear impression of the thrust of his thoughts.

'Yes,' he murmured in response to the Vulcan's unspoken thought. 'We have plenty of time – now. And plenty of opportunity.'


End file.
